


Oh! Darling

by itsrainingem



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: 70s AU, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, M/M, blatant disregard for historical accuracy, trophy husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-07-13 10:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrainingem/pseuds/itsrainingem
Summary: Merriell has a loveless marriage, his husband has more money than God, and Eugene has too many flowers to deliver.Or, the vintage trophy husband/delivery boy au nobody asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all I saw Dear Sidewalk (I liked it don’t @ me) and couldn’t get this idea out of my head. So please take this cliched piece of what is essentially pulp literature!! 
> 
> Set in somewhere-in-California in some alternate timeline where it’s around 1980 or so but the gays are rampant and running this country and society is actually progressive (gasp) because tbh that’s the world we deserve. AIDS isn’t really a thing, Reagan isn’t a thing, etc. Some things are very very different and some things are relatively the same. It doesn’t really respect history at all but it’s the world we deserve, okay? Okay. 
> 
> Just some light warnings that may or may not matter to you but should be noted anyway: this fic toes the line with adultery and there’s a theme of sugar daddies/young people getting dragged into relationships without thinking it all through. If you want to avoid those things entirely then this probably isn’t for you. I swear it’s all very happy and optimistic and it will all work out, though!!
> 
> Also aesthetically influenced by the Great Gatsby movie that came out a little while ago (don’t ask (or do)), every bit of 50’s housewife content I’ve ever consumed minus all that jell-o, and the ridiculous amount of Queen I’ve been listening to this past month.
> 
> Yeah. There’s a lot happening here.

It’s all a little over the top, to be completely honest.

Not that it’s Eugene’s place to judge, but really? Five dozen roses? It’s ostentatious no matter what the intention behind it is—and he certainly doesn’t know what that might be, as much as the card attached is begging to be read. At this point he could care less. All he wants to do is put the damn thing down.

He juggles the vase as best he can while he double checks the address one more time before taking the massive door knocker in hand and letting it drop back against the heavy oak a few times. The sound echoes through the house. Somewhere down the street a dog barks. He looks around nervously, eyeing where his truck is parked in the driveway.

He’s no stranger to the neighborhood in this line of work. Really, his deliveries take him here more often than anywhere else. His own family back home has their share of wealth, but their house back in Mobile would look downright slovenly compared to some of the properties on this street. Each home boasts its own greying couple, multimillion dollar fortune, wrought iron gate and long gravel driveway. This house—or mansion, more like—doesn’t appear to be any different.

No, what stands out is the chill that surrounds it. It feels empty and hollow, as if for all its occupants’ blatant wealth it still isn’t a home to anyone quite yet. The marble floors he can glimpse through the windows are spotless and shiny as mirrors, the furniture pristine enough to be brand new. There are no signs of life: no mug on the coffee table, no book on the untouched armchair, not even any flowers to brighten the place up.

That’s what Eugene’s here for, he supposes.

The surreal emptiness of it all is getting to him, though. He looks away quickly and skims his clipboard again to triple check the address, shifting on his feet to accommodate the massive, tasteless, ridiculous bundle of flowers in his arms. He’s just about to turn back to his van when the door swings open.

“Hey,” Eugene says without looking up. Without a doubt it’s a butler or something; houses like this always seem to have them. “Does a Merriell Richards live here? I’ve got some flowers for him.”

“Yeah?” a voice drawls. “And just who might you be?”

Eugene’s head snaps up and he promptly chokes on his own tongue.

Whoever the man before him is, Eugene can be fairly sure he isn’t a butler. Butlers probably aren’t supposed to go around wearing robes made out of some sort of lacy black fabric that is definitely not doing wonders to hide much of anything, let alone have that much of their chest showing where the two ends of cloth meet, let alone let the dark halo of their still-wet curls drop beads of water down warm skin. Eugene pointedly keeps his gaze on the man’s face, but now he’s getting heavy-lidded pale blue bedroom eyes for his trouble instead and quite honestly that’s almost worse.

“Um,” Eugene says, very intelligently.

That earns him a lazy smirk. The man crosses his arms over his chest, resting a hip on the doorframe. “Well?”

“Are you—uh,” his voice catches and he curses internally. He’s a professional. He’s a hard worker and he likes his job, and this is beyond undignified. He clears his throat. “Are you Mr. Richards?”

The man snorts. “Not for long.”

“What?”

“Just Merriell will do.”

Eugene clears his throat again. “I just need you to sign for these and then I’ll be off.”

“Who’re they from?”

“Uh, let’s see…a Mr. Lawrence Richards, Esquire.” The names click together all at once. Oh.

Merriell— _Mr. Richards_ —smirks again. “Tasteless thing, isn’t it? Can’t I send it back with you?”

Eugene can’t help it. He smiles wryly to himself, as much as he tries to hide it. “I’m just a delivery boy. What you do with it once I’m gone is your choice.”

Mr. Richards sighs heavily, gathering the smooth fabric of his robe around himself in a flourish before opening the door wider and walking into the house. “Come on, then.”

“What? No, I can’t—”

“Well you’ve got to deliver it, don’t you? Do you really expect me to carry all of whatever that is in here by myself?”

He looks perfectly able, not that Eugene is going to say it. He’s lean and almost delicate in the way he’s carrying himself, but even that doesn’t betray the shift of muscles under the fabric as he moves. Eugene frowns before stepping warily into the house. “They’re just roses,” he says.

“Yeah? You know a lot about plants, delivery boy?”

“I know about roses.”

Mr. Richards stops in the kitchen, a massive space as pristine and unwelcoming as everything else Eugene’s seen so far. It’s shining with chrome and tile, and the generous windows look out onto a patio and pool better suited to a hotel than a private residence. Mr. Richards leans his arms against the shining marble counter, smirking again. “Oh yeah? Language of flowers and all that? Tell me, what do these mean to you?”

Eugene raises an eyebrow. Five dozen red roses isn’t exactly a cryptic message, even to the most oblivious. “You know that whole language of flowers thing is made up, right? That’s why these things tend to come with cards nowadays.”

“You’re no fun. Won’t you make up a lie? I’m sure Mr. Lawrence Richards, Esquire would thank you for it.”

Eugene sighs. “Red roses are for romance.”

“Ooh la la. Tell me more.”

“There’s five dozen of them. Probably cost a fortune.”

Mr. Richards scoffs at that. “When money is no object that don’t mean shit.”

Eugene has to stifle another smile. Of all the people he’d imagined living in houses like this one, the man before him decidedly does not fit the bill. “Look, anything else you want to know is probably written in plain English in that card. All I need is your signature here.”

The man pouts at him like he knows he’s being rushed and he doesn’t appreciate it, but he takes the clipboard anyway. “Got a pen?”

“Yeah, here.”

Their fingers brush once when Eugene passes it over. His breath catches at even that tiny bit of contact, and this is ridiculous. He has no right to be so unprofessional, least of all with a married man. He clears his throat awkwardly as he takes the clipboard back. “Well thanks. Enjoy, Mr. Richards.”

“Like I said, it’s Merriell. And you never gave me your name.”

“Sledge. Eugene Sledge.”

“Eugene,” the man purrs like it’s some sort of dirty secret for just the two of them, and Eugene is going to hell, childhood of Sunday school be damned. He steps abruptly into Eugene’s space, tucking the pen carefully into Eugene’s shirt pocket. Eugene can smell him from this close: faint but sweet like jasmine, heady and addictive. He gives one lingering glance to Eugene’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. “Gene, it’s been a pleasure.”

Straight to hell.

It’s only once he’s safely back in the van that he chances a look at the clipboard. _Merriell Shelton,_ the signature box proclaims. The handwriting is in choppy and messy cursive, pressed hard enough in the paper to leave an indent on the other side. He can feel it when he traces over it with his fingers.

He spares one last glance to the house, but it looks just as empty and lifeless as it did when he first pulls up. He shakes his head at his own foolishness and then starts the engine and turns in the direction of the shop.

 

That's the last he expects to see of him.

 

“All done?” Eddie asks him later that night.

Eugene nods. “All done.”

“Thank god,” Bill gripes from the radio he’s taken a break in his work to tune, the dial blurring between his fingers as he searches for his favorite channel. “I hated looking at that gaudy thing. Now it's someone else’s problem.”

Eddie gives him a hard stare. “Bill, we don't talk about paying customers that way.”

“Well it's true, though. I mean, really? Five dozen roses? Even you've got to admit that's tasteless.”

“Maybe, but if a man wants to drop that kind of money on a bouquet that's his business. Besides, we could always use the cash.”

Bill scoffs, but he doesn't reply.

 

Tuesday finds him standing on that porch once again, shifting a heavy vase in his arms as he reaches for the knocker. Once again the sound echoes through the house, but this time he only has to wait a moment before the door is swinging open.

“Gene,” the man on the other side says softly, a sweet smile on his face. And great, he’s shirtless this time, dark jeans slung low enough to show the rise and fall of his hip bones.

“Mr. Richards,” Eugene says evenly. “Delivery.”

“It’s Merriell,” he chides. “And I can see that. God, it’s fuckin’ ugly. No offense,” he adds quickly. “Sorry if you worked hard on it or something.”

“I don't make them. It’s all my boss. Besides, this one was custom done.” One without any taste, by the looks of it. Orchids and roses were never meant to go together, and Eugene is fairly certain they were only chosen because they're the most expensive items in the store.

Mr. Richards hums, stepping back to let Eugene through. Eugene doesn't bother arguing this time. He’s only met the man once before but already he knows it's futile. “What's it mean, then? Roses and orchids?”

“I told you there's no code behind it, Mr. Richards.”

“And I told you to call me Merriell.”

It isn't a good idea to break down more barriers between them than he needs to; still, Eugene can't resist trying it out. “Merriell,” he says once. The man across from him smiles, eyes warm and inquisitive. “I can tell you with full certainty, as someone who’s studied botany and worked at a flower shop for two years now, that there is no language of flowers and I have no idea what this means.”

“‘No idea,’ he says,” Merriell drawls. “And he won't even make something up for the sake of entertainment. Tell me Gene, what do you think it means?”

He shouldn't say it. “I don't know.”

“You know,” Merriell says teasingly.

He shouldn't say it. He should bite his tongue. “‘I have money,’” he blurts out, and Merriell laughs with delight.

“That's the talk. No I love you’s and no I miss you’s, just money, money, money. You're a sharp one.”

Eugene grimaces. “Did you want it to say ‘I love you’? Maybe the card will be more helpful.”

“Read it to me, then,” Merriell says dryly, “if you’re really so sure.”

“I couldn't. It isn't mine to read.”

“I'm asking, ain't I?”

Eugene shakes his head, but Merriell looks at him imploringly until he relents. With a sigh he carefully tugs the piece of cardstock out from between the blossoms. He opens it and clears his throat. “My darling,” he starts, and the words come out flat. “I hope you are well. Accept this gift as a token of my devotion and hope that we will be reunited soon. Our lives are turbulent but through the stormy seas we were lucky enough to cross paths, and I know that even through tempests--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Merriell drawls. “Fancy words and flowery talk. That's why I never bother reading them.”

“It isn't exactly overly emotional,” Eugene allows. “I don't think there’s a single reference to his feelings in here, actually. It’s just…” He skims the rest before he catches himself, closing the card abruptly. “Sorry, it isn't my job to pass judgement or--”

“Oh, but you're right though, _cherie,_ ” Merriell says, leaning on the island across from him. “Ain't a thing emotional about it, and that's the truth. Just money and pretty words. Tell me, how do you say I love you in flowers?”

“There isn't any flower language, alright? For the last--”

“No,” he says softly, and smiles. “How do _you_ say it?”

God, he's gorgeous. He can't be much older than Eugene, eyes bright and impossibly young when he smiles. “Wildflowers,” Eugene hears himself say. Merriell’s smile goes soft at the edges and Eugene can't look away from the way it curves at the corners of his mouth. “There isn't any price on love. Aren't any boundaries. You can't buy it in a shop.”

“Ain’t you sweet,” Merriell murmurs. “Romantic little thing like you driving round selling flowers to people. It’s something out of a storybook. You ever been in love, Eugene?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

He tisks, the tip of his tongue poking out as he does. Eugene can feel his heartbeat quicken. “You’re supposed to be able to tell.”

The edge of the counter is digging into his ribs and he comes back to himself all at once. They're much too close. This is bad. This is so bad. He leans back abruptly. “I’m sure you’d know all about that, with someone sending you flowers like this all the time. Sign, please. I’ve got to get going.” He slides the clipboard across the counter.

Merriell pouts, but he takes it anyway. “So soon?”

“More deliveries to do.”

“You should take me with you.”

“That isn’t professional.”

“What if I ask nice?”

“It would still be a no.”

He drops his voice until it’s low and husky, blinking slowly at Eugene for dramatic effect. “Please.”

Eugene grabs the clipboard quickly off the counter, all but running to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Richards.”

Merriell smiles ruefully. “ _A la prochain,”_ he calls after him.

 

“I seen him,” Bill says the next morning, sipping a coffee at the workbench.

Eugene looks up from the clipboard. “What?”

“Mr. Richards, Esquire. I seen him yesterday.”

Eugene feels his cheeks heat. Surely Bill can’t know anything about whatever it is that’s happening with the man in the mansion—a _customer_ , no matter how beautiful he may be. Hell, Eugene barely knows what’s happening himself. He resolutely looks back down at the lines of text. “What does that matter?”

“What, you aren’t curious? You don’t want to know about the asshole who drops our entire weekly paycheck on flowers every day?” He jerks a thumb at the day’s arrangement resting on the edge of the table. “Look at that shit and don’t tell me you don’t want to know a thing about the guy.”

“I try not to get involved.”

“Bullshit. You wanna know.”

Eugene puts the clipboard down finally. “Fine. You gonna tell me?”

Bill leans forward eagerly. “Alright, so get this. He’s not bad looking but he’s going gray, you know? Probably from the stress of everyone hating him. He’s such a dick.”

“How old is he?” Eugene asks, frowning.

“What? You think I asked him for an exact number? He’s maybe forty. I don’t know. Anyway, get this: guy comes in in this wool suit that’s perfectly tailored and genuinely the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean it looked like something my dad would’ve worn at the tail end of the war or something. Now that? That makes me think he’s older.”

“Yeah, cause you’re such a fashion icon yourself.”

“Give it five years and everybody will be wearing Hawaiian print,” he says dismissively. “Big hair, too. Anyway, first thing he does is call Burgie ‘boy,’ which you know rubs his fur the wrong way. Second thing he does is ask us what our most expensive item is that’s blue.”

“Goodness.”

“Yeah. Like I said, total asshole.”

Burgie chooses that moment to appear from the back room. “Who are we talking about now?”

“Richards,” Bill answers with a roll of his eyes. “Who else?”

“We aren’t supposed to badmouth customers, Bill. It’s a bad habit.”

“Oh, please. You sound like Eddie. Come on. Give us your two cents.”

“I would, but I don’t think it’s necessary. Sounds like you’ve covered all the bases. Besides, there’s a picture of him in here today,” he adds, tapping the newspaper on the table. “Didn’t you see?”

“No,” Bill replies, grabbing it and frowning.

“Page four—there you go. Yeah. Take a look so you know to avoid him, Eugene.”

 _Another Win For Amoco,_ the headline reads. There’s a grainy black and white picture printed below it.

A group of men stand austere and serious in the middle of what must be some sort of gala. Lawrence can be seen in the background, slightly out of focus and appearing to be in a rush to leave the room. Merriell is being dragged along behind him, mouth curved in familiar teasing amusement. He’s wearing some sort of silky floral suit that buttons all the way up to his neck, perfectly tailored to accent the smooth lines of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. It must have cost a fortune, but that isn’t what has Eugene pausing. He’s stuck instead looking at the softness of his face and the brightness of his eyes under a mess of curly hair. Even being draped in finery and surrounded by wealth can’t hide his youth, made even worse by the aging men that surround him. Eugene distantly hopes the glass in his hand is just soda, even if he doubts it. He doesn’t look old enough to buy a beer.

“That’s him, alright,” Bill says, then points at Merriell. “Is that the husband or some piece on the side?”

“That’s him,” Eugene says distantly, then clears his throat. “He looks different now.”

“That photo’s old,” Burgie says. “I think it was from ’76. Richards hasn’t changed much.”

“You’ve met his husband, right Eugene? What’s he like? As much of a dick as Richards is?”

“I’ve never met Richards, so I suppose I wouldn’t know,” Eugene replies dryly.

“Oh, come on. Give us the gossip.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting. There isn’t much to tell. We don’t really talk.”

“You’re no fun,” Bill grumbles.

Eugene looks up to see Burgie watching him carefully, and he looks away again quickly. “We should probably get to work,” he says before Burgie can say anything. “It’s about time to open up.”

Burgie watches him for another moment before nodding curtly. “Yeah, alright. You can head out if you want.”

“Alright. Stay out of trouble, guys.”

“Hey, same goes for you,” Bill says. “You have way more potential for it than either of us.”

Eugene scoffs and pushes the paper toward him. He does his best to put the photo out of his mind as he scoops up the last few bouquets and heads toward the van.

 

It isn’t something he can forget about, though. It’s made even worse when the now-familiar door to the mansion swings open an hour later and Merriell is right there in the flesh, the curls styled out of his hair so it falls instead in neat waves and the softness long since faded from his cheeks. It hasn’t been more than a few years since the photo was taken but even his eyes are somehow different. Cooler, maybe. Eugene doesn’t know.

“You just can’t stay away,” Merriell drawls.

At least he’s fully clothed today, even if that shirt is practically see-through and was probably designed to be buttoned a little higher than it currently is. It does wonders for Eugene’s blood pressure this afternoon. “Mr. Richards,” he says, following Merriell inside. He knows the drill by now.

“Told you not to call me that!” Merriell says.

Eugene ignores him. “It’s not so much I can’t stay away as it is a certain someone can’t stop sending you these.”

“Oh yeah? Lucky me. What’ve we got today, then?”

“Calla lilies. And some blue roses.”

“Why do people feel the need to dye them?” Merriell muses. “They’re already pretty. You don’t need to go making them neon blue to enjoy them.”

Eugene has overheard Eddie argue the same thing countless times, and he can’t help but agree. “I’m not really sure.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“I can’t. I’m working.”

“Relax, boo. I mean a sweet tea.”

“Oh,” Eugene says, taken aback. He sets the vase down on the island carefully. “Yeah, actually. Please. That’d be nice.”

Merriell snorts, turning to dig around in the fridge. Eugene pointedly does not look at the way his shoulders flex and the muscles in his back twist and his waist—nope, he does not look. “What’s it say today, then?” Merriell calls, and Eugene starts.

“What?”

“The card, _cher._ What’s it say?”

Eugene sighs. “Merriell, I really can’t—”

“Ooh, I like that. Say it again.”

 _Shit._ “Mr. Richards,” Eugene says firmly. “I told you yesterday. We really aren’t supposed to read these.”

“And I told you yesterday,” Merriell chides. “I asked you to do it, and that makes it alright. We’re on first name basis, ain’t we?”

Eugene can feel his cheeks turning pink, and he grabs the card out of the bouquet before Merriell can notice. “Light of my life,” he reads, then pauses because _really?_ He clears his throat. “I miss you every day we’re apart and cannot wait to be reunited with you in happier times than these. I know that soon we will hold one another again and begin the rest of our lives together in earnest. Yours, Lawrence.”

Merriell snorts, pouring tea into glasses. “Fat chance,” he scoffs.

Eugene just turns the paper over and over in his fingers. Something about it isn’t right—is throwing his image of this whole situation off-kilter. It doesn’t quite line up, and though it’s right under his nose he can’t place a finger on it.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Merriell sliding him a glass across the counter, the condensation already leaving a damp trail against the marble. It’s wet against his fingers when he picks it up, and when he takes a tiny sip he can’t help but smile. “Thanks. It’s good. They never make it sweet enough out here.”

“I know,” Merriell replies. “They don’t quite get it. Us southern boys need a little sugar in our lives.”

“Or a lot.”

Merriell smiles softly at that. “Where you from, Gene? ‘Bama?”

“Yeah. Mobile.”

“I could tell. Ain’t heard that twang in a while. You’re a ways from home.”

“I could say the same.”

Merriell waves him off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What brings you out here, then? Don’t tell me you’re this far out just to do flower deliveries.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a good job. Pays alright.”

“I ain’t buying it. They need delivery boys in Mobile too, you know.”

Eugene huffs out a laugh. “I got this job to pay for school.”

“You graduated?”

“Yep. About two months ago.”

“What did you study?

Eugene smiles to himself. “Biology. Orinthology. I took a few botany classes on the side.”

“You get that degree just to be a delivery boy?”

“I didn’t. I’ll get another job soon.” He pointedly ignores how flat his own voice sounds. “I will. I’ll be working in the sciences. I like this job, so it’s alright for now.”

“Yeah?” Merriell teases. “You like dropping in to visit housewives all day while their husbands are out at work?”

“It isn’t nearly that exciting. I just like the flowers. Most of my clients tend to be over sixty.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Hey, just trying to pay the bills,” Eugene replies, then promptly feels ridiculous. Here he is saying that in front of a man who could probably buy the moon without having to work another day in his life, and still have money left over for dinner out every night. He clears his throat again. “I should get back to work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Merriell says, taking the clipboard and signing carefully on the line. “More housewives to harass, I get it.”

Eugene laughs quietly as he takes it back and heads to the door, Merriell following a pace behind him. “Have a good one. Thanks for the tea.”

“Anytime, sugar,” Merriell drawls, leaning against the frame and following Eugene with his eyes as he gets back into the van.

_Us southern boys need a little sugar in our lives._

Eugene shakes his head as he starts the engine and heads back to the main road, pointedly not looking back at the house as he does so.

And that’s when it hits him. It’s what he’d found so strange not only about that card but the card before. It’s not just the lack of emotion in the writing. Not everyone is a poet, and that wouldn’t have been all that odd. No, what had thrown him was the lack of just one word, so simple yet so expected in his line of work.

Merriell’s husband had never told him he loved him.

 

He’s still contemplating it as he arrives home to his tiny apartment for the night, turning on the radio just to shatter the stillness of the space and peering disinterestedly through the cupboards for something to eat. There’s a stack of bills and letters he doesn’t want to think about accumulating on the counter, but other than that his kitchen is sparse at best. Between his long hours outside of the building and the relatively small income he’s accrued there never seems to be a will nor a way to stock the cupboards past just the bare essentials.

He isn’t as tight on money as he could be, though things could be better. He looks briefly at the stack of textbooks sitting next to his bed. Each one cost a fortune and they haven’t been opened in months now. As much as he wants to just sell them he can’t bring himself to. He might need them at some point.

Maybe.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the phone ringing. He crosses the kitchen to pick it up from where it hangs on the wall. “Hello?”

“Eugene,” his mother’s voice greets. “I’m glad you answered. I wasn’t sure you’d be home.”

“I’m surprised you’re awake,” he replies, cursing inwardly as he checks the clock. “What time is it there? Almost ten?”

“Yes, well, we thought we’d stay up to see if we could reach you. We haven’t been able to contact you in several weeks now.”

“I told you, I don’t have an answering machine.”

“Yes, well. I sent a letter.”

He glances over at the stack on the counter. “I haven’t received it yet.”

“You’ll get it soon, then,” she says, and then there’s silence for a moment. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m well. How’s father?”

“He’s working as hard as usual. He’s been eager for your return home.”

Eugene stifles a sigh. “I don’t know when that will be.”

“I don’t understand,” she says with a nervous laugh. “You’ve already graduated. Have you found a job out there?”

“I’m still working the same job.”

“As a delivery boy? Your education could get you a much higher position, Eugene. It really isn’t worth it to waste your skills like this. Your time is worth more now.”

“Money isn’t an issue right now,” he says even as he looks around his shoebox.

She’s silent for a long moment. “We’re both glad you’ve decided to support yourself and find your own way. But Eugene, this was never your dream. You were meant for more.”

“I’m just fine where I am,” he says crisply. “It pays just fine, and I like the work.”

“At least promise me you’ll look for something better suited to your skills.”

He can’t. He can’t make a promise he has no intention of keeping in the near future. “I won’t make it home for a while. I need to save up for a train ticket.”

“Your father and I can send funds.”

“No, thank you. I’d rather do it myself. It’ll be good for me.” Good to have a reason not to go home quite yet, though he doesn’t mention that part.

She sighs. “Alright. I’ll tell your father to put in a good word for you with his friend at Berkeley. Maybe you can find work there.”

He lets the silence stretch. He has no genuine answer to that. “Goodbye, mother,” he says finally. “I’ve got to go.”

“Yes, well, alright. We’ll talk soon.”

He rests the phone back in the cradle and stares at it for a long moment. A car roars by underneath his window; upstairs someone is playing their ‘45s too loud, one of his neighbors is smoking what smells like frankly terrible weed, and the couple next door is fighting again. For a moment he imagines perfect silence: a room removed from every sound, smell and sight, still and desolate and far away.

And then he remembers the Richards residence, silent as a tomb at the end of its grand driveway.

He shakes his head and goes back to digging through the cupboards.

 

Their week of sunshine ends abruptly with a storm rolling in on a marine wind. It leaves Eugene shaking raindrops from his hair as he enters the shop, already dreading going outside again.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Bill says from the workbench. “A drowned rat, fresh from the rain.”

“Bill,” Eddie chides, though he can’t quite stifle his smile.

Eugene plunks down at the bench across from them. “Laugh it up, Leyden. You’re not the one who has to be out in this all day.”

“And thank Christ for that,” Bill replies. “Anyway, have fun. It’s gonna be dead as fuck in here with the rain, that’s for sure. People never come here in this.”

“Oh, we’ll be busy,” Eddie replies. “Andy’s coming by with the new shipment at three.”

“Do you need me to be here for that?” Eugene asks.

“No, it’s alright. It’ll probably be good for Bill to get a full day’s work for once.”

Bill snorts. “You should come back anyway, Eugene. We’ll need all the help we can get now that we practically have to restock the entire shop every day.” At Eugene’s blank look he sighs. “North Nottingham?”

The Richards residence, in all its gaudy glory. “What about it?”

“Half our stock gets sent there every day. Have you seen the size of those things? I mean, look at this.” He gestures to the pile of flowers Eddie is putting the finishing touches on, and Eugene balks.

“Is that cactus flower?”

“With aster, yeah.”

It’s bad. Lord above, it’s so bad. “Why…just why,” he mutters.

“Apparently the guy got his hands on one of those ‘language of flowers’ books and now he thinks just because the made-up meanings of two things go together means the flowers themselves go together, too.”

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Eddie says. “I really did. In the end it’s up to the customer though, Bill. It’s a bad habit to badmouth people like that, especially when they’re paying this kind of money.”

“Come on, Eddie. Even you can’t stand by something like that.”

Eddie is silent for a long moment, arranging the last few stems. “Periwinkle and scarlet don’t complement each other,” he mutters finally, under his breath and mostly to himself.

“Exactly!”

Eddie gives him a long-suffering look before pushing the vase across the table. “Eugene, this is ready to go and all the others are already in the van. You can head out whenever you’re ready.”

Eugene sighs before nodding, scooping the thing up and heading back out into the rain. If anything it’s gotten worse since he came inside. Just the short jog across the street to the truck has him feeling clammy and damp, pressing down on him worse even than the humidity of summers back home. It’s stifling, and he shakes the drops away as he slides into the driver’s seat and sets off for his first delivery of the day.

By the time a one Merriell Richards is the next person on his list the weather has definitely worsened, the rain accentuated by the occasional lightning strike. When he pulls onto North Nottingham he barely recognizes the property, darkened by rain and clouds as it is. He barely pays it any mind as he parks and climbs the steps quickly. The marble is slick with water and he’s hunching over against the downpour, doing his best to avoid getting his delivery wet. Between going back and forth to the van all morning and ducking over his deliveries to shield them from the worst of it he’s had no time to dry off, and he can feel his hair clinging wet and stubborn to his forehead.

He tries to tamp down on the worst of his shivering as he knocks on the familiar door, listening to the dull echo reverberate through the house.

When the door swings open Merriell isn’t smiling at him.

He isn’t teasing either, and he isn’t making a show of leaning against the doorway. No, today he’s wearing a downward twist to his mouth and worn out jeans and a shirt so faded it’s hard to tell what it must have looked like new, the sleeves tugged down until only his fingers peak out. He looks soft and warm and sad and quiet, and something in Eugene’s chest aches quite spectacularly.

“Delivery,” he murmurs.

Merriell regards him with pale eyes and steps aside wordlessly.

The house is dark and cold as ever, and with Eugene leading the way to the kitchen this time it seems even worse. Merriell isn’t in front of him to fill in the empty spaces, isn’t loud and teasing and shattering the frigid silence. He’s trailing behind him today, feet padding against the marble almost silently. Outside the pool is foggy and rippling from the raindrops, the patio shiny and the lawn chairs sad and wet. The light throws the whole space into greyscale in a way that only accentuates the lack of any sort of personal touch anywhere. It’s awful, clinical and depressing and cold.

He sets the vase down on the island as quietly as he can and when he turns around Merriell is staring at it blankly. The light is making the usually warm tones of his skin pale and grey. He looks too small in the yawning expanse of the mansion.

“Are you always alone here?” Eugene asks without meaning to, voice loud in the deafening silence of the house.

Merriell’s eyes snap to his. “Why?” he asks, voice scratchy as if he hasn’t spoken in hours.

“Just wondering. It seems…” empty, cold, depressing, vacant, unwelcoming, lonely, harrowing, isolating… “quiet.”

He half expects a snappy comeback to that, but Merriell doesn’t rise up to it. “It is,” is all he says, the unhappy lilt back in the corner of his mouth.

“Are you alright?”

“Don’t worry about me, Eugene.”

“Merriell,” he says, and those eyes are back on his again.

And Eugene knows the whole situation is wrong—the flirting, the teasing, the undeniable magnetic pull he feels toward this person. He knows it isn’t right to even look sideways at a married man, let alone be drawn in by him. It’s a recipe for disaster if he’s ever seen one.

But Eugene likes him. Getting close can only spell out trouble, but the idea of leaving him alone when he seems so sad aches in his chest. He can feel it. It makes his breath catch.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

It isn’t the answer he wants. Merriell looks sickly in this light, and Eugene suddenly hates all of it—the lifeless kitchen, the weather outside, the ugly bouquet on the counter. He hates every last thing about this house and he needs to get out. They both need to get out.

“Do you want to come with me?”

That’s got Merriell’s attention, now. There’s a spark of life back in his eyes, replacing the awful blankness as he frowns. “What?”

“Do you want to come do deliveries? You asked a few days ago. Still want to?”

“Yeah,” Merriell says. He swallows, and then the corner of his mouth is ticking up. “Yeah, I do.”

 

It’s like a switch has been flicked. As soon as they’re in the van Merriell is smiling again for real, turning in his seat to look at all the flowers in the back as the rain pounds against the windshield in a never-ending roar of white noise.

There’s a raindrop trailing down the side of his neck, steadily moving from the back of his ear to the dip above his collarbone, and Eugene is struck suddenly with the urge to lick it off. He clears his throat and starts the engine.

“This one is lovely,” Merriell is saying happily, stroking the petals of a tiger lily feather-light. “Orange is my favorite color. Did you know?”

“I do now,” Eugene says, smiling to himself. “That’s not for you, though.”

“It’s a damn shame,” Merriell drawls, picking up the tag and reading it. “Gianna Esposito.”

“Gianna’s a friend. We’ll do that one next.”

“Ooh, Eugene. You got a little girlfriend along your delivery route?”

Eugene raises an eyebrow at him as he pulls out of the long driveway, but he doesn’t reply.

It’s just as well. Merriell fills the silence on his own just fine. He alternates between fawning over each arrangement in turn and flipping through the radio only to bemoan the lack of his favorite songs. He flicks his head to shake raindrops from his hair all the while, its neatly-styled waves turning into a mop of tight curls from the moisture. When a particularly loud clap of thunder rattles the van he whistles lowly even as he ducks his head away from the window. He’s electric like this, a never-ending flicker of color and sound as he talks and laughs and moves.

Eugene is entranced. He’s lucky he doesn’t crash the car.

When they finally stop in front of the familiar stoop of the Espositos’ house Merriell is all but buzzing. “I can’t believe you’re taking me to meet your girlfriend. Gene, you really do give me everything.”

“What makes you think she’s my girlfriend?”

“You ain’t denying it, are you?”

Eugene scoops up the bouquet, opening the door and making a mad dash for the porch. He can hear Merriell behind him, laughing as he splashes through the rain. He rings the door bell, watching as Merriell skids to a stop at his side, silver drops glinting off his eyelashes.

He’s really way too pretty.

“All I’m saying,” Merriell continues as if nothing had happened, “is you go around calling her by her first name when you won’t even do the same for me. And we’ve known each other for how long now?”

“Four days,” Eugene says dryly.

“Yeah. Four days. But no, you gotta be all professional like a fuckin’ idiot. Ain’t we friends?”

“I guess.”

“Then why are you acting like we ain’t?”

He’s got to. Someone needs to hold the line in all this. “I’m not,” Eugene says. Merriell scoffs so he says it, as quiet and soft as he can as if it’s a secret. “Merriell.”

Those eyes are trained suddenly on his mouth. Merriell blinks once, suddenly serious. He watches him for a long moment. “Say it again,” he murmurs.

The door swings open.

“Eugene!” Gianna screeches. Her two dogs tumble gracelessly out of the door before surrounding Merriell in a flurry of limbs and wagging tails. “ _Come te la passi?_ This rain is awful. I was going to go to the market today, but now I think not! I don’t want to walk in this!” She notices the dogs finally, shoving each other out of the way as Merriell struggles to pet both of them at once. “Oh, _scuza. Ragazza, entrate!_ ” As fast as they appeared they scurry back inside. “Sorry. My stupid dogs, they have no manners. And who are you?”

“This is Merriell,” Eugene jumps in, because Merriell seems to still be trying to come to terms with the fact that Eugene’s girlfriend is a five-foot-tall elderly Italian woman. “He’s helping out today.”

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am,” Merriell says quickly with a smile, holding out a hand.

Gianna beams and ignores his hand entirely in favor of pinching his cheek. “Oh, you. Sweet boys, you both are. Eugene knows how to pick them, no?”

Eugene can feel his cheeks heat. “Oh, we aren’t—”

“Oh, hush. What do you have there, _passerotto?_ For me?”

“Oh. Yes,” Eugene says quickly, and hands her the bouquet. “From a secret admirer.”

“Ah, you. Always the mysteries. Won’t you just tell me? Here,” she adds, puttering back into her kitchen and yelling to them all the while. “I made cannelloni yesterday. You take the rest of them. You’re both too thin.”

“Oh, Gianna—”

“No! Where is your mama, Eugene? She should be feeding you more!”

He smiles weakly. “She’s back in Mobile, still.”

“She hasn’t come out here?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll be back home soon, anyway,” he lies.

Gianna harrumphs and appears back in the doorway, thrusting a Tupperware toward him. “You take this then, both of you. You boys leave your homes and nobody looks after you. You must care for each other, you know? It’s love.”

Eugene sputters, but Merriell just gives her an easy smile. “Will do, Mrs. Esposito.”

The door closes and Eugene turns to him incredulously.

Merriell just shrugs. “What? She seems nice.”

 

They move on to the retirement home for their last few deliveries. The rain had let up for much of their visit as they passed around the clipboard and unloaded the truck, but when they finally arrive back at the Richards residence it’s pouring down steadily once more.

Eugene eyes the house as he throws the car into park. The windows are as dark and still as ever, and as much as he knows they should part he’s hesitant to just leave Merriell to his own devices once more. If the trepidation on his face is any indication the man beside him is holding similar worries.

“You can come in if you want,” Merriell offers finally. “You can dry off and get some food before heading back.”

Bad idea, going down a path he knows he shouldn’t take. Eugene nods anyway. He parks the van and follows Merriell through the rain at a jog up the steps.

The house is as barren as always, but at least it’s warm and dry. When he pokes his head into the kitchen where Merriell’s disappeared to it’s to see him turning on the oven and placing Gianna’s casserole dish neatly inside. When Merriell sees him he sends him a crooked smile. “You’re dripping water all over my floor.”

“So are you,” Eugene says pointedly, gesturing to the puddle developing under his shoes. His hair is curly and wet now and leaving dark stains on his shoulders.

He closes the oven with an air of finality. “Come on. We gotta dry off before we catch the grip.”

He follows Merriell up the winding stairs to the second floor, follows him down a hall and past at least a dozen closed doors. There’s a bedroom at the very end. It isn’t the master. Eugene can tell that much. No, this room is smaller than any he’s seen so far, with big windows and a tiny balcony overlooking the crashing grey waves on the lake. A bed sits in the middle, the white sheets mussed. There are only a few other personal touches—a stack of 45s on the windowsill, a scratched bronze ashtray that remains empty, a watch on the dresser that appears to be broken and a few fine pieces of cloth draped over a chair—but already it seems miles more lived in than the rest of the house.

“Let me hang your shirt up,” Merriell calls from the bathroom. When he pokes his head around the doorway Eugene can see the corner of one bare shoulder, tawny from the sun. Against his better judgement he drags his own shirt over his head just to avoid staring and gets a tiny thrill out of the way Merriell’s eyes follow the motion. He tosses the wet fabric across the room and gets a towel thrown his way in return.

“Is this your room?” Eugene asks, haphazardly drying himself off. At least his pants seem relatively dry, and thank god for that.

“Yeah,” Merriell calls. He emerges a moment later, hair towel-dried and fluffy. “It’s the old maid’s quarters. The master is too big.”

Eugene wonders at that. It’s yet another piece of the picture that doesn’t fit—Merriell, surrounded by luxury at every turn yet treating the house as something embarrassing. He’s as loud about his possessions as he is begrudging of them.

Merriell pushes his shoulder gently until he’s sitting down on the edge of the bed and then settles next to him. Eugene is hit with a wave of nerves all at once. He has to quell a rush of disappointment when Merriell just tuts and takes the towel from him so he can dry Eugene’s hair for him. If anything he should be relieved at the domesticity of it. Having his control over the situation slip away should be the last thing he wants.

He catches himself leaning up into the touch and tries to drag his thoughts back into something coherent. “I think this room is bigger than my entire apartment,” he gets out, and Merriell breathes out a laugh. They’re close enough that Eugene can feel it against the damp skin of his forehead.

“This whole house is oversized,” Merriell murmurs. “Too much damn space.”

“Yeah? Why do you live here?”

Merriell stills for a moment before moving again, rubbing the towel over the back of Eugene’s skull in a motion that feels more like a massage than anything. “Gotta keep up appearances. High society, and all that. I married a guy I got no feeling for. He’s got more money than God Almighty,” he adds in a sarcastic drawl.

“Mr. Richards.”

“I told you, that ain’t my name.”

“No, it isn’t, is it? It’s his. That’s how he addresses the deliveries and maybe it’s your legal name, but it isn’t what you call yourself.” The pieces are coming together, as much as his brain is turning to goo under Merriell’s hands. “Shelton. You’re Merriell Shelton.”

Merriell stills again, and when Eugene opens his eyes there’s a tiny smile on his lips, his eyes crinkled and warm. “You’re smart, ain’t you?”

“I pick up on a thing or two.”

Merriell smiles fully at that, absently running his fingers through Eugene’s hair. Eugene fights the urge to purr. He doesn’t know how they keep ending up so close like this. It isn’t right, but it’s certainly addictive. He can feel the heat radiating off Merriell’s skin, can smell the rain still clinging to his face. “That’s my old name,” Merriell murmurs. “Haven’t heard it in a while.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll be changing it back soon enough, though.” Something must show on Eugene’s face, because Merriell gives him a wry smile. “We’re getting divorced.”

The world freezes, then slowly starts moving again. “Divorced,” Eugene repeats.

“Mhmm. It’s in the works right now. Never marry a lawyer, Eugene. He’s been dragging it out ‘til kingdom come.”

“That why he’s sending all those flowers? He thinks he can win you back?”

“He knows he never had me in the first place. He’s just trying to guilt me into staying.”

“And the house?”

Merriell shrugs. “He never spent much time in it, anyway. I think he just wants me to get attached to it so I’ll think twice about leaving it behind.”

“Seems like that’s working really well.”

“Oh, very,” Merriell says sarcastically.

His hand is warm and heavy on the back of Eugene’s neck, slowly working kinks out of the muscle. The waves are just barely audible from here and the rain is still coming down hard against the windows. It’s hypnotizing: the rush of sound, the weight of Merriell’s fingers, the smells of water and jasmine radiating off his skin.

“That all the questions you got, _cher_?” Merriell murmurs.

Eugene drags his eyes up to look at him. When did they get so close? He doesn’t know. He wants to be closer. “Have you ever been in love?” he asks quietly.

“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You’re supposed to be able to tell when it happens.”

“Yeah?” Merriell whispers. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Some guy,” he replies.

Merriell laughs quietly into the space between them. Eugene studies him, watches the humor fade from his eyes to be replaced with something solemn and serious. “I’d like to be,” he says softly after a beat.

His eyes are magnetic—his entire person is magnetic, and Eugene is being dragged into the pull. That’s what he’d like to think, anyway. He’d like to say it’s no fault of his own that he can’t seem to move away, but the truth is all he wants to do is move closer still. He’d like to say he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, but in all honesty he doesn’t want to even try resisting whatever it is that’s drawing them closer and closer and closer.

Merriell is studying him, eyes careful and impossible to read. He tilts his head as he contemplates him, his hand finally stilling to rest solidly against Eugene’s neck, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Eugene’s eyes catch on the movement before darting back up, but Merriell is looking at his mouth now instead.

Their noses bump.

He should stop this. He should go. So it turns out Merriell isn’t quite as married as Eugene thought he was; so it turns out Eugene isn’t quite a homewrecker. So what? It’s still unprofessional. It sounds like the plot of a bad soap opera. He should put a stop to this.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to.

They’re sharing air this far into each other’s space. They’re in their own bubble of warmth where nothing else can touch them: not the storm still raging outside, not the cold emptiness of the house, not whatever parts of their lives they’re trying to avoid. It’s just them, hovering on the brink of whatever this is. Merriell’s eyelashes tickle his cheek when he blinks. It’s just them.

Their lips brush. It barely counts as a kiss, really. It’s just a second of pressure and warmth, and then they’re drifting apart again. When Eugene opens his eyes Merriell is already looking back.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Eugene whispers.

“Probably not,” Merriell whispers in response.

“You’re a customer and you’re still technically married. I shouldn’t…” He trails off when he catches Merriell staring at his mouth again. “It isn’t right.”

“None of that’s true. I ain’t the one buying flowers.” Big eyes flick to Eugene’s lips, so fast he almost misses it. “Fuck all of that, though. Did you want to?”

Eugene nods and their noses brush.

“Then do it again.”

He does.

And it’s perfect. It’s sweet and soft and warms him right down to his toes, and then Merriell sighs and pulls him closer with the hand still on the back of his neck and then it’s _great._ His breath catches and he runs a hand along the wet skin of Merriell’s waist and Merriell bites at his lip in return. It isn’t quite so sweet anymore, but it’s still slow. It feels like they have all the time in the world.

It isn’t long before Merriell is tugging the back of his neck insistently, and when he flops down onto the mattress Eugene follows. Their skin is clammy where their chests are pressed together, but he doesn’t mind. Something about it brings him back to reality a little. When he threads his fingers carefully through Merriell’s tangled curls they’re cool and wet to the touch, too. The rain is pounding down just outside the open window, but here they’ve found shelter.

He’s distracted from the thought when Merriell turns to kiss the inside of his wrist in a gesture that’s surely too sweet for whatever it is that they’re doing.

What are they doing?

Oh, that’s right. He remembers just as he leans down to kiss him again, long and slow and punctuated by a roll of Merriell’s hips that Eugene isn’t sure is deliberate or not. That’s what they’re doing. Getting him fired, probably. Tumbling headlong into some sort of suburban scandal.

He can’t stop.

He can’t stop wanting this, and it’s getting too tiring to try. They’re grinding against each other in earnest, and he can’t stop that either. He can barely stop kissing him long enough to draw a breath. Neither of them can stop long enough to even undress properly, and judging by the way Merriell’s eyes have gone hazy and his breath quick Eugene doesn’t think that will change soon.

“Gene,” Merriell whispers into his temple. The sound rushes together with the rain outside and the waves far below the window, soft and soothing. Merriell’s fingers are warm as they scramble for purchase on his waist, on his back, on the sheets beneath them.

“Yeah.” Eugene kisses the skin closest to his reach—Merriell’s cheek, and he gets a huff of air that could be a laugh at nothing in return. In the next second the sound is replaced with an almost inaudible groan as he grazes his teeth against his jawbone. “Yeah,” he whispers again and feels lightheaded with it, the world somehow flipped on him as he feels control of his limbs starts to slip away.

He reaches blindly to hold anything at all and somehow his fingers find Merriell’s, warm and grounding. The other ends up in Merriell’s hair again, accidentally snagging on the tangled mess it’s evolved into since this morning. An apology is halfway to his lips even as Merriell’s eyes flutter closed finally. He arches off the bed, lets out a string of curses and squeezes Eugene’s hand tight in his own, and between one breath and the next Eugene is falling off the edge right after him.

He loses himself in it for—how long, he doesn’t know. The sound of the rain comes back first, then the warm weight in his muscles, then the smell of Merriell’s hair and the feeling of his fingers tracing patterns along Eugene’s shoulder.

“You’re crushing me,” he murmurs.

“Sorry,” Eugene says, rolling off him quickly. He winces at the stickiness in his jeans and Merriell laughs, smiling up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Shoulda taken ‘em off first.”

“Like you’re better off.”

Merriell hums and stretches. “Well take them off now, then. Gotta wash the mud off your other clothes, anyway.”

“’Ain’t trying nothing,’ he says,” Eugene parrots, already getting slowly to his feet. Merriell isn’t wrong, after all. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re trying to seduce me.”

Merriell just laughs again.

 

They chatter about nothing in particular and eat only slightly-burned cannelloni in bed, after. Eugene keeps shoving more onto Merriell’s plate whenever it’s starting to empty, thinking back to that photo of him from years ago, bright-eyed and soft-cheeked. The knobs of his wrists are a bit too prominent now, and his eyes a little too hollow. Eugene piles more food onto his plate and doesn’t think too much about it.

“You’ll make it back alright?” Merriell says as Eugene wanders toward the door. It must almost be evening now, the sky even darker than before.

“Worried I can’t drive in the rain? Do you want me to call when I get home?” he teases, and Merriell rolls his eyes.

“No point. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, anyway.”

Eugene falters at that, but he gets tugged into a chaste kiss before he can overthink it. It feels better to let go of his worries for a while, anyway. That’s the takeaway he’s had from this afternoon: it’ll all come back to bite him, he’s sure. For now he feels good, though; like he’s caught in a dream, the edges soft and blurred.

When Eugene finally makes it back to the shop Bill gives him a knowing look over his paper. “Took you a while today.”

Eugene steals his mug of coffee from the counter, warming his hands against it. They’d gotten cold and wet again from the handle of the door. “I had some things to take care of,” he mutters.

Bill snorts. “Sure. Yeah. Hey, you’re looking a little pink, there. Something happen?”

“Don’t you have work to be doing?”

“Yeah. Hey, how about that shirt. And those pants, for that matter. You go home to change while you were out, or—”

Eugene stands quickly. “Come on, Bill.”

“Nuh-uh. Sit your ass down. You’re getting route pussy, aren’t you?”

Eugene gives him what he hopes is a long-suffering glare. It’s probably a bit too panicked, because Bill just grins even wider. “I’m not.”

“Kinda looks like you are. How is it?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“So you are, then! I fucking knew it!”

“Bill,” Eugene says sharply, gathering his things. “Let it go. I’m serious.”

Bill blinks his tone. If it was one of the newer guys maybe he would have continued his teasing; as it is he just quiets rapidly. “Fine, Gene. Sheesh. What happened to you, anyway? When’d that stick get wedged up your ass, huh?”

Eugene heads rapidly toward the door even as Bill continues to yell. “Goodnight, Bill.”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t mean it!”

 

He wears Merriell’s shirt to bed. He’d like to say it’s because he’s too exhausted to change, but really that’s only half the reason. The other has something to do with the fact that the fabric is soft and warm and still carries that scent that takes him directly back into that room where everything is warm and quiet and removed from the outside world.

He’s never been a solid sleeper on even the best nights, but burying his nose into the warmth of his sleeve he drifts off and sleeps like a baby, dreaming of the warm body his arms could be curled around and the way Merriell’s lips tasted against his own as the rain continued to pound against his window.

God, he is so royally fucked.

 

Despite Bill’s continual ribbing about the torrid affair Eugene may or may not be having along his delivery route things stay relatively chaste after that first day.

Merriell greets him with a kiss when he sees him the next morning, and the morning after that. When Eugene finally takes it upon himself to be the one to lean forward first Eugene can feel him smiling against his mouth.

“What?” Eugene asks, bemused.

“Oh, nothing,” Merriell says. There’s a teasing note in his tone, but before Eugene can parse it he’s being dragged in again, today’s ugly bouquet forgotten on the counter.

Eugene can’t stop smiling about it for the rest of the day, to the point that his return to the shop is met with suspicious glances.

“You good, Eugene?” Eddie asks him in low tones from across the work bench.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, no reason. It’s not that. You just seem so happy lately.”

“There’s a lot to be happy about.” Eugene watches as Eddie hums noncommittedly and continues picking through the pile of carnations on the table. “You don’t think so?”

“No, I do. I’m glad you’re doing better. I know things were up in the air a little with school and your family and all. Is it working out finally?”

In truth he hasn’t thought about that in longer than he’d care to admit. The job search is at a standstill, communication with his family has all but stopped and his degree is nothing but a piece of paper gathering dust on his bookshelf. It should mean something—it does mean something. He’s built the last four years toward one goal, his eye always on what he wanted most, and now that it’s all said and done every bit of fire driving him forward has suddenly sputtered out. “It’s in progress,” he says hesitantly, because hopefully it is.

Eddie gives him a searching look. “In progress?”

“Yeah. Nothing immediate. I’m still thinking about exactly what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”

“If what you’re supposed to be doing is right here then take your time, by all means. We like having you around. I’m just glad to see you smiling again.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” he says, and means it.

 

When he gets home it’s almost dark, and he scoops his mail out of the box before heading to the stairs. He skims the paper quickly, but the front page is dominated by oil in the gulf and no news of anything else. He puts it into the back of the pile as he sifts through everything else, taking the steps at a jog.

There isn’t news on the radio tonight, at least. He lets the music fade into the background as he sorts through the stack on the counter. It’s mostly bills and spam, but a familiar cream stationary catches his eye. He doesn’t give himself time to overthink it as he cracks the seal.

_Eugene._

_We thought we’d help with the job search. Enclosed is the card for one of your father’s contacts at Berkeley. He is in need of a lab assistant, and when we contacted him he said you could be a perfect fit. He told us he’d call you tomorrow. The position pays well, is steady and would open more doors for you in the future. Please—_

That’s as far as he gets. The enclosed business card is thick and heavy-printed, and he doesn’t even read the words on it before setting it aside.

He thinks for a moment about writing them back. _Dear mother, thank you for your concern but I can manage my own life. I’ll find the job suited to me, regardless of pay or networking. Enclosed is an invitation to leave me the hell alone._ It’s a nice daydream, but it fades into guilt in the next second. They’re just trying to help.

No doubt they know these things better than he does.

His eye catches the front page of the paper again. _Mexican oil spill continues, still baffling experts._ There’s a photo of a bird, its plumage hidden under a thick layer of black sludge, cradled in the gloved hands of a volunteer. He thinks it must be some sort of pelican, though it’s difficult to tell.

The business card makes its way into the recycle bin along with the spam mail. Eugene is asleep by ten.

 

“What’s the matter?” Merriell asks against his mouth the next day.

“Nothing.”

“You can tell me.”

“I’m okay,” he says, accepting the press of soft lips against his own. “Really. It’s alright.”

Merriell regards him calmly, but doesn’t push it. “What’s the deal with this, then?” he asks, gesturing at the bouquet on the opposite corner of the table from where they’re sitting.

Eugene looks at it. The soft champagne roses would be nice enough on their own; next to the bright yellow of the sunflowers they look washed out, the gentle pale yellow faded to the point it almost looks beige next to their brighter counterparts. Add in a handful of bluebells and the whole thing is ghastly. “No idea.”

“What, has he stopped telling you?”

“He never told me in the first place. I still haven’t met the guy.”

Merriell hums. “Probably for the better. Want any more coffee?”

“I should probably get going.”

“Just a little longer.”

Eugene shakes his head ruefully, not quite able to hide his small smile. “Mer.”

“Come on. Don’t you wanna?”

He does, very much so. “I have to get to work.”

“Ain’t a rebellious bone in your body, cher. Fine,” he pouts, though Eugene can tell he’s teasing. “Get back to work, if that’s what you want. I know it ain’t.”

“It isn’t about what I want,” he says as he stands. “Some of us need to work for a living, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I don’t work hard. You don’t gotta go to court every other day, at least. Now that’s work.”

“How’s it going?”

Merriell frowns. “Fine. He’s a demanding piece of shit but I’ll get my way. We all know it.”

“He’s just dragging it along?”

“Til kingdom come.” Merriell stands. “I should probably get ready to go, anyway. Gotta be there in an hour.”

Eugene nods. “Good luck today.”

Merriell smiles and gives him a lingering kiss that promises more later. Eugene sighs into it, suddenly dizzy, but as soon as it starts it’s over. “Won’t need it,” he says with a smirk, letting his hips sway as he walks out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you later, I’m sure.”

Eugene shakes his head after him, not quite able to stop the smile on his face. He’s still shaking his head as he heads out the door and toward his truck.

 

“You’re different, _passerotto,_ ” Gianna says as he hands her a pot of chrysanthemums. “You seem happy.”

“Everybody’s been saying that lately,” Eugene grumbles.

“Oh, don’t get angry about it. It’s a good thing.”

“Was I not happy before?”

“You weren’t not happy.”

“What?”

She laughs. “You’re, oh. How do you say. Withdrawn, I think. You’ve been very tired.”

“I’m still tired,” he says, and she laughs again. “Who isn’t tired?”

“You know what I mean. Before you were so closed off, you know? Now you have that spark. That boy, he is good for you.”

“Gianna,” he starts, because he really doesn’t want to be getting into that. It feels taboo enough to steal a glance at Merriell in the privacy of the mansion only to catch him already looking back; speaking about him in public leaves nerves fluttering in his chest.

“Oh, relax. Whatever is happening, I won’t tell.” She mimes zipping her lips. “It isn’t my business. I know nothing about it. Now, will you tell me who I can thank for the flowers?”

“Can’t,” he says, relaxing. “It’s a gift.”

“A gift from who?”

“You know I can’t say if they don’t want you to know. You have a secret admirer.”

“’Secret admirer.’ And you have your secret love as well, no? Fine. I’ll keep your secrets and you keep mine. Before you go I have some biscuits for you, okay?”

“Gianna—”

“No, you take them. Share them with your secret _tesoro_ , okay? You’re both too thin.”

 

He finishes his route early and stops at his apartment to freshen up. The clouds are rolling in thick and heavy from the bay, leaving the air cold and salty and darkening the sun. He shrugs out of his uniform and pulls on a sweatshirt, second doubting himself in the mirror for a moment before mentally scolding himself. Merriell doesn’t care, and he shouldn’t either.

The phone rings.

He gives it a long look. He could just leave now and let any caller think he isn’t home. He was about to walk out the door, anyway.

It’ll just be postponing things, though. They’ll call back.

He crosses the room and picks it up quickly before it rattles off the hook. “Hello?”

“Eugene Sledge?” a voice asks.

“Speaking.”

“Nice to meet you, Eugene. My name is Andrew Reid. I’m a friend of your father’s.”

The thick business card from the day before comes to mind. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Andrew Reid. Yes. From Berkeley.”

“That’s me. I heard you’re in the job market and might be interested in being a lab assistant.”

“From my father?”

“Yes, that’s what he said. I reviewed your file—” the sound of flipping papers crackles over the line. “I talked to your research supervisor and while it seems like you’re focused on a slightly different area it could still be a valuable position for you. We do a lot of work with animals, which seems to appeal to you. This could be a great stepping stone.”

“By work with animals you mean testing?”

“Testing, yes. It’s parallel to the medical sciences field.”

He reigns in a sigh. “Professor, I’m not sure that’s the kind of work I had in mind.”

“Yes, your professors said you’re more interested in conservation. Listen though, Eugene. This is a stable position that you can hold for years. You could really climb the ladder with us. Conservation is a noble pursuit, but someone needs to do the lab work, too. This could prove to be a great opportunity for you.”

He glances at the counter, and his eyes catch on the paper from the day before again. “Thank you for opening it up for me, then. I’m not sure I can outright agree to—”

“Of course not. Keep it on your radar, alright? Think on it. You’ve got a week or so to decide, but it won’t be here forever.”

Eugene swallows, but he can’t think of anything to say. The words are stuck in his throat, suddenly.

Reid seems to take the hint. “If what I’ve heard from your father is any indication you’re meant for great things. Don’t sell yourself short. I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay. Alright. Thank you,” Eugene gets out. “I’ll think it over.”

“Alright now, son,” Reid says, and then the line goes dead.

He stares at the phone for a long moment, then looks at the newspaper again. Lab work wouldn’t be so bad, maybe. It depends on what they’re testing. If it’s medical it has a potential to do a lot of good, certainly. It would at least put his degree to good use.

It’s a good opportunity. He isn’t sure why it fills him with so much dread.  

 

 _What do you want?_ Merriell whispers in his ear. He can feel his hands trailing down his chest, dipping under his waistband, his breath warm against his ear. _What do you want? Tell me and I’ll give it to you._

He doesn’t know. He can’t say. He pulls Merriell against him by the small of his back, feels all his warmth and hard edges and the weight of his body, still too light against Eugene’s own.

_Tell me._

His mouth is warm too, warm and soft. Eugene could die like this. He’d be perfect content to have that be the last sight he sees, if only he could see him. As it is everything is darkness. He can’t catch even a glimpse of Merriell’s pale eyes or soft lips.

_Tell me, Eugene._

“I don’t know,” he says, words dragging like molasses, and all at once Merriell disappears.

When he opens his eyes it’s to the pattern the blinds cast against his ceiling. He spends a long moment studying it before rolling out of bed and getting dressed.

He’s no stranger to insomnia, but the grit in his eyes drives him crazy as he hurriedly makes a pot of coffee and rushes out the door. His job isn’t exactly strenuous, but he can’t afford to be exhausted. His own worries take up enough of his energy as it is.

When he finally stumbles into work he’s blessedly only five minutes late. He enters through the back door, and Bill casts him a grateful look.

“Thank god you’re here. Take over for me for a minute, will you?”

“I need to clock in and talk to Eddie about deliveries, Bill. I can’t—”

“Just five minutes. I gotta pee. You don’t want to go out there right now, anyway.”

Eugene frowns. “Why not?”

“Eddie’s busy talking to the prime douchebag himself.”

“Who?”

“Richards. Who else?” He thrusts his shears toward Eugene. “Take these, c’mon. I’ll be right back.”

Eugene looks distractedly through the doorway to the front of the shop as Bill rushes off. Richards is recognizable from here: proud posture, ugly suit and neatly brushed receding hair not a far cry from the photo Eugene had first seen his likeness in. He remembers his dream, suddenly: Merriell’s warm hands and sweet whispers. He feels jealousy flare up suddenly in his chest and picks up a rose quickly, distracting himself by taking up Bill’s task of plucking off the leaves as he strains to hear what the two are saying.

It isn’t hard. They’re speaking rather loudly.

“We’ll have those right out for you within the hour,” Eddie says soothingly.

“I need them sooner. As soon as you can.”

“The next deliveries will be going out—”

“I don’t care. I need them now. I’ll pay extra if I have to.”

Eugene can see Eddie sigh even from here. He turns back to his work quickly, snapping the leaves off the next rose with a bit more force than necessary.

“Very well,” Eddie says with forced cheer. “Eugene?”

“Yeah?” Eugene replies, abandoning his task and coming toward the front of the shop. He does his best to keep his face open and pleasant, though he isn’t sure it works.

When he looks up Eddie is giving him his most plastic smile, his jaw tight. “You’re going to need to leave early today. Can you drop this off at Nottingham?”

“Yeah, sure.” He eyes the bouquet. It’s a particularly hideous combination of violet and scarlet, but at least it’s only big instead of massive this time.

He comes to the counter to scoop the thing up, taking the clipboard Eddie hands him along the way. Eddie begins totaling the costs and Eugene shifts uncomfortably, feeling Lawrence’s eyes on him. When he looks up he’s being studied, a desperate edge to the man’s eyes.

“Are you the delivery boy?” Lawrence demands.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“You’ve been dropping things off at this address,” Lawrence asks again.

Eugene frowns. This isn’t going anywhere he’d like to explore. “Yes.”

“That’s my husband,” Lawrence says.

Not for long. He can’t say that, though. “I’m sure he appreciates the gifts.”

“Does he? Do you know?”

Does Eugene know? He knows Merriell only smiles when his thoughts are as far away from Lawrence Richards as possible. He knows it gets a little goofy around the corners when Merriell is genuinely happy. He knows what he looks like when he’s content, when he’s peaceful and pliant; knows what he sounds like when he moans Eugene’s name. “I don’t know,” Eugene says blandly. “I’m just the delivery boy.”

“It’s just as well,” Lawrence grumbles. “He’s an ungrateful little bitch.”

Eugene bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

Eddie must notice, because he elbows Eugene in the ribs when Lawrence is looking away. “Eugene, how about you head out? We can take care of the rest of this.”

“Yeah,” Lawrence adds. “Hurry along, boy. We don’t have all day.”

Eugene feels rooted to the spot. He has a sudden urge to throw a punch. It would be all too easy. What’s the worst that could happen? He gets fired? That wouldn’t be so bad.

Lawrence glowers. “What do you want?”

What do you want. He knows what he wants. “Excuse me,” he says, stepping around him.

Eddie throws him an apologetic look as Eugene takes the vase in a white-knuckled grip out the door. He drops it unceremoniously in the passenger side of the van and swerves onto the road in a move that almost sends the thing flying. It isn’t like it matters. This may just be the ugliest one yet.

All this time he felt bad about being the other women, he needn’t have bothered. Merriell had never hid his dislike of his husband. Eugene thought he was overreacting, or that the history of their relationship was adding water under an already low-hanging bridge. But no, Lawrence Richards is well and truly a terrible person.

He speeds down the road and whips the van onto North Nottingham. The house stands still and austere as ever, a monument of wealth and poor taste. Merriell is inside somewhere, just another piece of the picture—of Lawrence Richards’ picture. It almost makes sense now. Eugene thinks he might finally be starting to see all the pieces as one. Merriell could lose every single thing he has any day now, and still he’d be better off than he is.

He lurches to a stop in the driveway, scoops up the vase and jogs up the steps. It takes a long moment for Merriell to answer the door. He isn’t used to Eugene coming this early, probably. Damned Richards.

The door swings open. Merriell is standing there, eyes wide and happy and surprised, still hazy around the edges from sleep and draped in a navy silk robe that makes his skin glow. “Eugene,” he greets happily.

“Merriell,” Eugene says, then drops the vase onto one of the wicker chairs by the door and crushes their mouths together.

Merriell’s breath catches. Eugene can feel it where their chests are pressed together, can feel it when Eugene pulls him in with a hand against the small of his back until they’re flush against each other from head to toe. He licks into Merriell’s mouth and gets a high whimper in response.

He’s too much. He’s way too much.

Merriell seems to get over his shock finally, giving back as good as he gets. He wraps warm arms around the back of Eugene’s neck and all but drags him inside, kicking the door shut behind them as he goes. When they reach the living room Eugene pushes him gently back onto one of the pristine couches. It’s entirely possible that this is the first time anyone’s sat on them at all. When Merriell lands on the cushions he immediately sends one of the ridiculous throw pillows flying to the floor with one flailing arm, and Eugene has to stifle a laugh against his neck. Then he has to suck a bruise there, just because.

Merriell gasps against his ear, then laughs breathlessly. “Christ. What’s got into you?”

“What, you really need to ask?” He pulls away to look over the mark he made. It’s an angry shade of red, and when he traces a thumb over it Merriell gasps again and tugs at the robe until the silk is falling midway down his arms.

“Just not used to you being so quick on the uptake, is all,” he gets out, hips stuttering as Eugene attaches his lips to his collarbone and traces a hand down his chest to push the fabric away even further. “ _Jesus._ Not used to you leaving marks, either.”

Oops. He has, hasn’t he? That’s two now. Merriell’s pupils are blocking out nearly all the blue in his eyes, his lips bitten and his cheeks pink. He looks dazed and happy and Eugene can’t really bring himself to regret it. “I met your husband,” he says, picking apart the knot of the robe.

“Yeah? What did you think?”

Eugene takes his time answering. He settles with his knees on the floor and kisses the mark on Merriell’s collar bone one more time, then the side of his ribs. When he breathes across the skin below his navel Merriell squirms and throws one knee over Eugene’s shoulder. Eugene reaches up to hold his leg steady as he bites at the soft skin of his inner thigh, and Merriell swears quietly and squirms again. Eugene looks up at him finally. “He’s shorter than I expected.”

Merriell outright laughs at that, a full sound that has him shaking, and Eugene grins against his leg. “Anything else?”

“He called me boy.”

“You’re no boy,” he snorts, then gasps when Eugene breathes over the head of his cock.

“He called you his.”

“I ain’t his,” Merriell purrs.

“I figured that part out.”

“What else?”

Eugene takes him in hand and presses a kiss just under his head. He can feel Merriell’s fingers tangling in his hair. “He said,” he murmurs slowly, giving him a kitten lick, “that you can be very ungrateful.”

Merriell laughs breathlessly again. “That what he said? Maybe he’s just never given me a single thing to be grateful about.”

“Not even the house?”

“I don’t want any damn house.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re gonna get on your knees, look at me like that and ask me what I want?” Merriell teases.

“Do you want this?”

“Please.”

He’s irresistible. It’s really quite unfair. He’s sweet and magnetic and his attention is something Eugene is growing far too addicted to. When he takes him into his mouth finally Merriell’s fingers tighten in his hair of their own accord.

“ _Christ,_ ” he hisses, and Eugene swallows him down to the root. “Jesus, Eugene. You’re—” his voice dies in a moan, and Eugene slowly pulls off again.

“I’m what?”

“Perfect. Fuck, don’t stop,” he whines, and Eugene goes back to work.

He’d been planning on dragging this out, spending the morning taking Merriell apart. He has extra time today since Lawrence was kind enough to send him here early. One look at Merriell tells him that he isn’t going to last that long, though. His entire body is a live wire coiled tight and tense, his eyes hazy and distant.

“Eugene, I—”

He reaches up to thumb one of Merriell’s nipples and Merriell breaks off again, hips twitching forward. His cock hits the back of Eugene’s throat and Eugene has to pull backward to avoid gagging on it. He reaches across to pin his hips to the cushions. The pressure of it has Merriell moaning again, his heel digging into Eugene’s back.

“You’re perfect. God, look at you.”

One of his thumbs brushes along Eugene’s cheekbone, and Eugene pulls off again for just a moment to kiss the pad of his finger before he continues. It makes Merriell smile, hazy and unfocused.

Eugene wants to do this forever—take care of him forever, make him feel good and loved and give him something to smile about. The thought comes out of the blue, too real and too honest, but even in the vulnerability of his position he isn’t shocked by it. It isn’t any sort of revelation, just a fact long true coming to light: he wants to make Merriell Shelton feel happy and cherished for as long as he’ll be allowed.

Merriell doesn’t need a caretaker—didn’t need one before Eugene came along and doesn’t need one now. Merriell can look out for himself, and they both know it. Still, surely he wouldn’t begrudge Eugene this if he asked. Surely he wouldn’t begrudge him a tiny corner in his life and the noises that keep escaping his mouth.

“I wanna keep you,” Merriell says in a slur, and there’s Eugene’s answer.

He catches Merriell’s hand that’s been fisting in the satin of the couch. His fingers left a tiny tear in the fabric, and just like that the couch has become theirs. They did that together; they marred the clinical neatness of the room and added a piece of today into it. He laces their fingers and Merriell’s lips quirk up again, eyes unfocused and warm. He’s squirming again, the muscle of his calf twitching against the side of Eugene’s neck, fingers shifting restlessly in his hair. “Gene,” he groans, and now his fingers are tugging instead. “Get off, I’m close.”

Eugene just hums and doubles down, squeezing Merriell’s hand as a moment later warmth floods his mouth. It’s been a while since he’s done this but he swallows as best he can while Merriell curses and writhes above him. He doesn’t let up until Merriell pushes him weakly away, flopping sideways onto the couch with a lazy smile.

“Fuck,” he says, laughing breathlessly.

Eugene laughs at him, sweaty and spent and sprawled on a pristine, thousand-dollar piece of furniture. The robe is still caught around his arms and pooling around his legs like water, making his hazy eyes seem that much bluer. He looks like a painting. He belongs in a museum. “Was that what you wanted?” he asks him, voice a little rough, and Merriell grins.

“Get up here.”

Eugene lets him fuss and prod until they’re positioned however Merriell wants, and in the end Eugene is hovering carefully on top of him, trapped with one of Merriell’s ankles hooked around the back of his thigh, still fully clothed while Merriell sprawls naked and limp beneath him. It’s only then that Merriell drags him down for a kiss, long and dirty and slow. Eugene knows his mouth must taste awful but Merriell only hums into it, sucking at his tongue before pulling away to bite at his neck. All at once Eugene’s jeans feel much too tight. It was easy to ignore a moment ago, but now it’s all he can think about.

“That was exactly what I wanted,” Merriell murmurs against his jaw.

He’s a clingy thing like this, all long limbs and grabby hands and warm skin. It’s sweet, yet another thing about him to get addicted to. “I didn’t think I was that good,” Eugene replies. “It’s been a while.”

“Been a while for me too, _cher_. I haven’t had a blowjob in what, two years?”

That has Eugene jerking back. “What, seriously?”

“On my life.”

Eugene frowns. The information isn’t enough to distract him from the cool hands sneaking up his shirt, but it’s news all the same. “You mean you and he never…”

“Oh, don’t ask about things you don’t want to know.”

That’s fair. It isn’t the kind of thing he should busy himself wondering about, if he wants to maintain his own sanity. “Still though, two years?”

“Well, he was more into receiving than giving, what few times he wanted anything at all,” Merriell says blandly, tugging at the hem of Eugene’s shirt until he lets him pull it off completely. When he does Merriell drops it over the edge of the couch, immediately reaching out to explore Eugene’s skin. It sends goosebumps racing down his arms and heat rushing to his cheeks. “Besides, I barely seen hide nor hair of him in all my time here. All that time and he’s spent barely a week in this house.”

“I guess you do have something to be ungrateful about,” Eugene says.

Merriell grins up at him. “Fuck you, Eugene.”

“No, I’m serious. Two years without a blowjob? No wonder you went a little crazy with it.”

Merriell’s hands reach his waistband finally, squeezing at the bulge in his jeans. “Oh, shut up. ‘Ungrateful.’ I’ll show you ungrateful.”

Even that small amount of contact has his head spinning. “That’s a line if ever I heard one,” he giggles breathlessly.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Merriell drawls. He pops the button of his jeans and unzips them carelessly, tugging at the beltloops until Eugene helps him pull them down his thighs. “You don’t want any thanks?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Hmm.” He takes him in hand finally, thumbing at the liquid on the head, and Eugene lets his face thunk onto Merriell’s shoulder. He gets a dull nip to the shell of his ear in return. “I’m grateful, Gene. Grateful for you and for him, too. All this time he thought he was sending me presents in the mail when he was really just sending you to my door.”

His other hand tugs on Eugene’s hair until he props himself back up, and only then does he really start pumping him, slow-paced and lazy in a way that has pleasure burning down Eugene’s spine.

“Look at you,” Merriell breathes, eyes bright.

The scrutiny makes him want to squirm away as much as it leaves him preening from the attention. He has to concentrate just to keep himself upright as a clever flick of Merriell’s wrist sends all the blood rushing from his brain. “You do this to every delivery boy he sends your way, then?” Eugene manages to get out. Hopefully he even made that sound as light as he intended, but something in the quirk of Merriell’s lips tells him a note of bitterness snuck through, anyway.

“You jealous? Want me all to yourself, is that it?”

He does. He ducks down to kiss him, just to prove it—makes it as slow and dirty and all-consuming as the motion of Merriell’s hand. He pulls back with a gasp when Merriell bites his lip sharply and tugs at his hair hard enough to sting.

“Relax, _cher._ Ain’t been nobody but you.”

“Why?” Eugene asks. He feels like he’s on fire, feels like he’s breaking apart. Merriell is the only thing holding him together anymore—his clever hands and warm skin and bright eyes. “You—fuck. You were alone here all this time. It must’ve been awful. Why me?”

“You’re sweet,” Merriell purrs. He changes his next stroke, rubs a thumb over the sensitive skin under Eugene’s head and watches as he gasps from it. “Gorgeous and lovely, but also sweet. Ain’t it true? You care about people.”

“Care about you,” Eugene breathes mindlessly.

Merriell hums. “You do. Tell you something, Gene. I ain’t a cheater. Never have been. People come through that door thinking I might be,” he says mockingly, punctuating it with another devastating flick of the wrist. “Plumbers to lawyers, you name it. Didn’t matter. Ain’t a single one I wanted, but I wanted you.”

“Tell me,” Eugene gasps, and Merriell grins again.

“You want to hear it?”

“Please.” He can feel pleasure building, coiling over itself like a spring behind his navel. It’s good, so good his vision is blurry with it and he feels lightheaded and shaky. When Merriell finally picks up his pace he groans, fighting not to thrust into it.

“You’re easy on the eyes. That’s no secret. Sweet face; strong hands,” Merriell mutters against his mouth. Eugene is sagging into him again; he can’t stop it, but Merriell tugs at his hair once more and that helps. “Didn’t really hit me until that day in the rain, though. Shirt sticking to your chest, hair all wavy and wet, water dripping down your neck, running through a storm just to make some old ladies happy. Christ, I wanted you bad. Wanted you ever since. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I felt like a damn teenager, Eugene, I swear.”

Eugene lets out a short laugh at that, and Merriell gives him a tiny surprised smile. He wants to kiss him like he deserves, slow and sweet and loving. As it is all he can manage is a short nip to his jaw, breath coming ragged as it is.

Merriell doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles smugly as he talks. “Wanted to be yours, too. You gonna make me yours, Gene? I’d like that.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Mer, I’m gonna—you need to—”

“Right here _cher,_ come on. Mark me up. I wanna see you.”

The wave building in his core comes crashing down suddenly, sparks fizzing across his skin as he freefalls. He can feel Merriell’s fingers scratching at his scalp, can feel him biting at the skin under his ear and hear him whispering something into his hair as Eugene’s face drops into his shoulder again. He can’t see, can barely breathe. It feels like he’s flying to pieces but Merriell is there to hold him together, to hide his moans away and smooth down the sparks on his skin and cloak everything in warmth and safety and jasmine. Everything is good and golden and Eugene is shaking with it, the barest tremor down his spine and across his shoulders.

When he comes to he’s collapsed on top of Merriell, not that the other man seems to mind. He’s still petting absently through his hair, and when Eugene twists to look up at him Merriell looks back smugly.

“Hi,” he drawls.

Eugene sighs against his neck, eyelids heavy and skin still buzzing and hot.

“You alright there?”

“Mhmm.”

“Got a few brain cells left?”

“You’re a menace.”

“He speaks!”

Eugene shifts on top of him—not that he can go far, still trapped in the bracket of Merriell’s legs and his clinging arms—and winces at the tacky mess between them. “We should shower.”

“Probably.”

Neither of them move. It’s only Merriell’s fingers tracing over the damp skin on his back that has Eugene’s thoughts coming back together gradually, an undercurrent of unease running through him. It makes him want to scramble away as much as it makes him want to pull Merriell’s arms tighter around himself.

“You gonna get up?” Merriell murmurs, and Eugene shifts.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. He stands carefully and considers his jeans for a long moment before shucking them to the floor, taking the gold-encrusted hand Merriell offers him and trailing after him to the bathroom.

It’s only after they’re standing under the stream of hot water with soap suds trailing down their legs and the air thick with humidity that Eugene speaks.

“Did you mean it?”

Merriell’s eyes snap to his, and Eugene is almost worried he doesn’t remember. The conversation isn’t one he wants to recount for recognition’s sake, but Merriell is as sharp and focused as ever as he pushes streaks of wet copper off Eugene’s forehead absently. “Which part? About wanting you? You know that’s true.”

“No,” Eugene mutters. He can feel his cheeks flaming. “Not that. About…”

Merriell studies him. “About being the only one?”

“Yeah. People wanted you. You wanted them back. Don’t lie,” he adds when Merriell opens his mouth. “I know it’s the truth. You’ve never been happy here. You’ve never been happy with him.”

“So what? Are you jealous?”

“No.” And he isn’t. Merriell isn’t his. He does as he pleases. Eugene has no right to be jealous of him for that. “I just want to know why I was different.”

“You’re really looking for an ego boost today, huh?”

“Mer,” he murmurs, and when their eyes meet it feels like the whole world has become supercharged all at once. “Tell me this wasn’t just convenient. Tell me—tell me it isn’t just because I walked through the door right as you were filing for divorce.”

Merriell’s eyes soften at that. He looks almost hurt, and Eugene has barely a second to puzzle over it before Merriell’s kissing him gentle and sweet under the spray of the water. It feels good; feels slow and familiar, like they’ve been doing it for years. “You want it to be for another reason,” he murmurs. “Not just convenience or lust. Is that it?”

Eugene doesn’t reply. Maybe it is; that doesn’t mean it’s the only thing he wants to hear. He asked for the truth because he wanted to know it.

“Four years I been married,” Merriell says. “Four years I been on that man’s arm and chased around by his colleagues and paraded like God-knows-what. You know that? And in four years you’re the only one who wanted to know if I was happy. That’s the truth of it. I ain’t lying to you.”

“Are you?” Eugene asks. They’re still close; their lips bump together when they speak, warm and wet from the water. “Happy, I mean. Are you happy?”

“I am when I’m with you.”

It isn’t an answer, not really. Somehow, for now, it’s enough anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally so sorry this took so long to write, y’all. It’s been a super hectic semester so thank you for sticking with me! This chapter was about 17K and still missing a lot of pieces so I figured I’d just split it into two. Don’t worry about the change in chapter count—the next one is very close to being done since it’s really just the second half of this one, and the final count will remain at 4. Anyway, here’s your dose of pulp literature!

They can’t stop, now that they’ve started.

Eugene knows better. He does, really. He knows this is only going places he shouldn’t be and that there’s no way either of them comes out of it all unscathed, but he can’t stop. God help him, but he doesn’t think either of them can.

And it isn’t just the sex. He knows that. He’d be able to resist if Merriell was just this to him (warm and pliant against the kitchen counter, hot and demanding by the side of the pool, greedy in bed and prone to laughing against Eugene’s mouth, giddy with it) but that’s the problem. It’s been barely a month since Eugene first knocked on his door and already he seems to know his body as well as he knows his mind. They fit perfectly together physically, but the way they read each other’s thoughts and spur each other on—well, it’s electric. He can’t give it up.

Merriell feels the same, if current events are any indication.

“ _Merde,_ you—Gene, I wanna feel it.”

“You can’t feel this?” Eugene mouths against his throat, stifling a smile. Merriell is sitting on the marble counter, holding Eugene close between his knees, steadily marring the disgusting neatness of the kitchen.

“Give me something. Come on,” Merriell pants mindlessly, and then follows it with a string of French.

And Eugene doesn’t know what half of that means, but somehow he can guess—knows what he needs by the gentleness of his fingers today, by the haziness in his eyes and the way he breathes quick and shallow. Eugene tugs on his curls until his neck is exposed in one long golden curve before sinking his teeth into the salty skin there. Merriell shouts as he comes all over his hand.

Like that. He can’t stop.

And he doesn’t mean for it to go any further than it already has. He’s already a walking cliché on his way steadily toward disaster. It’s gone far enough. He thinks about that fact constantly to the point it has him lying awake at night for hours sometimes, listening to the cars below his window and turning it over and over in his head. He should cut this short. He should end it. It isn’t quite right, not to mention another thing to stress over when thinking about his already messy future. He should cut it short.

Every night, without fail, he rolls over and forgets about it. It’s easier to justify to himself than it is to cut stop, because he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to, god help him.

And every night, without fail, when he closes his eyes there’s only one person he dreams of.

 

On Monday he delivers his flowers.

“They’re almost tasteful today,” he had commented to Eddie that morning.

“Almost being the operative word there,” Eddie had replied dryly. “He took my advice and decided purple irises and red roses probably wouldn’t go well together. This looks a bit too much like it’s going to a wedding, but I swear it’s an improvement.”

An improvement it most certainly is, if not a big one. It isn’t like it matters, anyway. The whole thing gets forgotten as soon as Eugene walks through the door.

Nearly an hour after Eugene entered the house Merriell flops backward onto the pillows, panting and flushed. “Take me out,” he says.

Eugene props his chin on his hip and looks up at him. “For dinner? Wining and dining?”

“Ain’t that how to treat a lady? Buy her a drink first?”

He scoffs out a laugh and crawls back up the bed to lay beside him. “You aren’t a lady. We’re running out of firsts, too.”

“At least get me outta here, then. Take me home with you. Anything.”

“You want to go home with me?” Eugene asks, unease cutting through any lingering fog of pleasure like a knife.

“’S only fair. I showed you mine.”

It’s true. “I don’t have much,” he says hesitantly. “It isn’t like this. I’ve just got an apartment.”

“You think I like all this?”

“Better than a shoebox.”

“Please, Sledge,” he moans dramatically. “I’m dying. One more day cooped up here and I might just burst.”

“You get out, don’t you?” Eugene says, stalling. “For court and the like.”

“Like that counts,” Merriell mutters. He looks somehow petulant now, quiet and closed off. It reminds Eugene suddenly of that day in the rain that started all this, the quiet coldness sneaking back onto his face. He rolls over so that they’re closer, laying his cheek on his arms to face him.

“Merriell.”

Blue eyes flick up to his.

He abruptly forgets what he was going to ask. The worlds sputter and die halfway between his brain and his lips.

Merriell watches him expectantly for a moment before rolling his eyes.

Someday Eugene will get better at denying him things. Someday, but not today. “You want to come home with me?”

“Yes. That’s what I been _fucking saying._ ”

“Then come home with me.”

Merriell blinks, taken aback. It’s the first time Eugene has managed to render him speechless. It’s an odd feeling. “Now?” he asks quietly.

“If you want to. I’m done for the day.”

His surprise doesn’t wear off as they get ready to go. It leaves him strangely quiet, his face unreadable for all that Eugene tries. He pulls him closer just before they leave, gently as he can. When he kisses him softly Merriell responds in kind.

“Okay?” Eugene murmurs.

“’Course,” Merriell replies blandly as if nothing had happened.

Eugene shakes his head and follows him out the door. Merriell doesn’t even bother locking it, trotting down the steps to the truck and waiting impatiently as Eugene opens it. Once inside he begins flipping through radio stations restlessly.

His energy is rubbing off on Eugene in the worst way. He frequently walks the line between self-reflective and overconfident, and in times like these it leaves Eugene feeling off-kilter himself. He’s never quite sure what to expect or how to act. “It isn’t much,” he says, echoing his own words from earlier.

“I told you I don’t care,” Merriell replies, not looking up.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He settles finally on talk radio, and then proceeds to talk over it. “What’s it matter, anyway? You think I never lived rough?”

Eugene casts a sidelong look, taking in his neatly straightened hair and the numerous rings around most of his fingers. The shirt he hastily threw on is elegantly draped silk, mottled and vibrant and clinging to his frame in all the right places. “Oddly, no,” he mutters.

“Don’t be quick to judge. Didn’t they teach you that in that fancy school of yours?”

Eugene scoffs but doesn’t answer. They ride in silence for another few minutes as the announcer prattles on about Ixtoc for the umpteenth time that day. “I warned you it’s a shoebox,” he starts.

“Eugene,” Merriell says. “It don’t matter. I told you.”

“I know. I just don’t bring people there often, is all.”

“Well I never,” Merriell coos, turning to him with a wide grin. “I’m the first boy you’re taking home, baby doll? What will the neighbors think?”

Eugene rolls his eyes and turns the radio up.

They park the truck as far from the shop as Eugene can get away with and Eugene leads him quickly down the street to his building. He feels ridiculous casting a furtive look off the stoop as Merriell goes inside ahead of him, but he can’t help it. For all Merriell’s joking it really does feel scandalous, and with good reason. He looks around for lingering eyes one last time before following Merriell up the stairs.

His door looks as worn and beaten as ever, the bronze numbers hanging on by a thread. The carpet beneath their feet has at least been vacuumed recently, even if it is still permanently stained with years of mud. Merriell looks out of place here in all his finery yet at the same time comfortable in a way Eugene hasn’t seen him except in the rare glimpse. He puts it out of his mind and struggles to open the door, his hands unsteady all the while.

“Relax, cher.”

“I’m fine.”

Before he can stall any longer the door finally opens with a long squeak. He stands aside to let Merriell enter ahead of him, watching him pace slowly through the room and take it all in.

He hadn’t had time to clean, and the apartment is a little cluttered. At least he doesn’t spend time here often nowadays; messes don’t have much time to be created anymore. A few shirts hang over the end of his desk chair and his bed is in a comfortable state of sprawling comforters and disarray. The golden light of afternoon filtering in through the blinds is making the outlines of Merriell’s silhouette glow, divine and otherworldly. Eugene picks up the ever-growing stack of mail off the island and sorts through it just for a reason not to ogle. “It isn’t much, but it’s home,” he mutters.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Merriell turn once, then twice. “Home,” Eugene hears him mumble faintly as he moves toward the window. There’s a crackle as Merriell drops the needle on his record player, and then music fills the space. “Abbey Road?” he asks teasingly.

Eugene spares a glance up finally. He’s unbuttoning his shirt slowly as if undressing is the first thing he does when seeing anyone’s apartment for the first time, breeze from the window making the fabric sway. Eugene quickly back down to the mail he hasn’t been reading. “What, you’re not a fan?” he asks.

“Just didn’t peg you as one.”

“I’m not.” A new letter from his old research advisor has joined the pile. He pointedly moves it to the bottom. “It’s the first one I ever bought.”

Merriell snorts.

“Well what’s yours, then?”

“Beggar’s Banquet.”

Eugene looks up again. “You’re not serious.”

“Serious as day.” He drapes his shirt carelessly across the back of Eugene’s desk chair then flops unceremoniously onto his bed. “Nice mattress,” he remarks.

“Small comforts,” Eugene says dryly. He puts the mail down finally and wanders over, pausing to straighten the shirt where it hangs so that it doesn’t wrinkle along the sleeves. “Do you want anything to eat? I don’t have anything here, but I could order something.”

Merriell blinks slowly. “In a while, maybe.”

He looks good like this, somehow more settled into himself. He allows his shoulders to droop and his hair to fall where it may—small changes, but they somehow stand out dramatically all the same. Eugene realizes with a start that he’s never seen him this carefree and calm. Some tension Eugene doesn’t remember noticing seems to have left him. It can’t be just the simple action of leaving his house. It can’t be that immediate, surely.

“You gonna take a picture so you can keep staring?”

Eugene swallows. “What?”                                                                                       

“Come here,” Merriell says, rolling his eyes.

Eugene lays down next to him warily. He watches the light from outside play across the ceiling. They’re almost through an entire song when he feels Merriell’s fingers feather-light against the sleeve of his t-shirt, lightly toying with the fabric. On a whim he moves closer, just enough that their arms are touching. It sends a thrill through him. Odd, that they’d seen every part of each other they could possibly see and yet the simple intimacy of this is what makes him nervous.

He turns his head to study Merriell’s profile in the dying light, and Merriell lets out a breath and rolls carefully until his bare chest is pressed against Eugene’s side. Slowly and as subtly as he can Eugene shifts until they’re tangled together more fully, until he can trace random shapes between his shoulder blades and feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

Merriell meets his eyes finally.

“There’s no way your first album was Beggar’s Banquet,” Eugene whispers.

Merriell grins. “It was M.P.G.,” he says, and it’s partially his answer and partially his little snort of laughter that has Eugene grinning, too.

 

They doze for a few hours, wrapped up in each other as they are. It’s more domestic than Eugene would like to own up to. This isn’t what they are to each other, but lulled in the rhythm of Merriell’s breathing and the occasional murmur he makes in his sleep he can’t bring himself to care about it that much.

He’s snapped out of it harshly when the phone rings. Merriell grumbles something and rolls away from the sound, and Eugene scrambles out of bed quickly to pick it up.

“Hello?” he half-whispers into the receiver.

“Mr. Sledge. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

He inwardly swears and glances at his barely-used calendar. It’s been a week, but of all hours of the day he didn’t expect Reid to call him back now. “Professor. It’s a perfect time,” he lies. “I was just about to call you, actually.”

“Oh? That’s good to hear. I take it you’ve made a decision?”

Eugene turns to look at Merriell still laying in bed. He’d rolled over again when Eugene stood up and is now looking at him over the edge of the pillow sleepily. “Not quite,” he replies. “I’m afraid the only update I have is I have yet to make a decision. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in the bay area so I don’t know if I can commit to anything.”

“That’s a shame,” Reid says. “We’d be happy to have you.”

Merriell is studying him now, tiredness quickly fading as he fixes Eugene with that unblinking stare. Eugene looks away quickly, spinning the phone cord in his hands. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he says, though it feels like a lie more than anything.

Reid hums. “Well, if you find yourself staying in the area after all there are always spots open in our neighboring lab. They’re doing some related work and they’ll give you any training in the field you might need. They’re taking applications until August. I can put in a good word for you.”

Eugene frowns. His eyes wander back up to the calendar pinned to the wall. “I can’t give you a solid commitment right now. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll just pass your name along. If you end up applying they’ll be really happy to have you, and if not…” He trails off, and Eugene can imagine the implied shrug. “It’s up to you.”

“Alright. Thank you again, professor. You didn’t have to do any of this. It means a lot.”

“Your father is a good man, and from what I hear you’re a good student. It’s no trouble. I’ll be in touch.”

Eugene rests the phone carefully back in the cradle before turning around. Merriell is propped up on his elbows now, watching him with raised eyebrows.

“Who was that?”

“Professor at Berkeley,” Eugene says. “He wants me there for a job.”

“You turned it down?”

“It isn’t a good fit.”

“Why not?”

Eugene shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want yet.”

“Where are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Back home?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He glances at his calendar again, but it only reminds him how horribly open his future really is. “Not home. I don’t know yet, but I don’t want to go home.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Merriell, I don’t know.”

It comes out harsher than he meant, but Merriell doesn’t flinch. He instead lets out a breath before rolling out of bed, grabbing his shirt off the chair with jerky movements. “I get it,” he says, usual drawling tone turned sharp. “Boy like you fresh outta college with no idea where you’re going. Can’t commit to anything. Makes sense.”

“It’s temporary. I’ll figure it out. I have time.”

“Right. You do,” Merriell mutters. He buttons his shirt quickly before reaching for his shoes. “There ain’t a rush. You got time.”

“Where are you going?” Eugene asks.

“Gotta get some rest before I head into court tomorrow.”

“I can drive you,” he offers.

“I’ll catch a cab.” His shoes are pulled on quickly and then he’s heading to the door. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Merriell,” Eugene says, at a loss.

Merriell pauses finally, hand on the doorknob. He tilts his head but doesn’t look back.

“I can’t commit to a job right now. It’s just a job. Are you upset about…” Eugene gestures uselessly between them.

Merriell turns finally to look at him incredulously. “What?”

“This isn’t about whatever we’re doing, okay?”

“And what the fuck are we doing, exactly?”

Eugene feels his cheeks warm. “Nothing,” he says defensively. “You’ve still got a husband.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Merriell stares at him for a long moment before letting out an almost inaudible breath of laughter. He opens the door and lets it slam shut behind himself, and all at once Eugene is alone again.

Eugene stares at the door silently for a long moment. Odd, how he’d come to associate Merriell with color and sound so closely in the starkness of the house on Nottingham. Maybe that association is leaking in here, making his apartment feel cold and empty now that he’s gone. Suddenly just sitting waiting for time to go by doesn’t feel like enough. It no longer holds the same appeal.

He looks to the stack of mail on the counter and the newspaper bearing ill tidings of political scandals and oil in the gulf. The phone hangs silent in its cradle and all his textbooks and notepads are gathering dust on their shelves. Finally his eyes land on the box containing his pipe.

Packing and lighting it is methodical and comforting, and once he’s done he sits on his bed (too empty now, in a way he’s never noticed it to be) and leans against the window sill. He tries to put it all out of his head and focus on the routine of being in the moment, but it’s impossible not to dwell on—the miniscule jerk of Merriell’s shoulders as he laughed, the slam of the door echoing in the apartment.

_What are they to each other?_

Eugene would like to know, because right now it feels like they’re still hovering on the brink of something. Right now it feels like it had felt that first time they had kissed all those weeks ago, Merriell’s chest damp against Eugene’s own and his lips tasting like rain. Right now it feels like a part of his life is missing because a man he’s barely known a month has decided to leave him to his own devices, and he’s never felt like this before, and he’s not sure why.

It was wrong to say, about Lawrence. Merriell hadn’t wanted to think about him, and Eugene hadn’t either. It wasn’t right.

He stays there in silence, smoking until the sun goes down. Finally, dizzy with it, he goes to bed.

 

“Bill, don’t make me say it again.”

“I just don’t see how it’s offensive!”

Eugene pauses in the doorway before stepping in fully. The night before left him feeling raw in a way he doesn’t particularly like. He’s on a hair trigger as it is, and the stress of Bill’s day-to-day bickering with anyone and everyone isn’t how he wants to start his morning. “Am I interrupting anything?”

Eddie sighs. “No, Eugene. I’m just explaining to Bill why his attire isn’t appropriate for work.”

“It’s a political statement!” Bill says, tugging the cotton of his t-shirt flat so Eugene can read it more easily. _F U, BP_ it proclaims proudly. “You can’t take my voice away, Eddie. This is the land of the free. You should know.”

“I should know?”

“Yeah. You fought for this country.”

“I did,” Eddie says, a trace of amusement in his voice. “That’s why I understand that sometimes we gotta do things we don’t wanna do because it’s what our superiors ask of us.”

“Yeah, in the name of defending our personal freedoms! Wasn’t that what the war was all about? Defending the capitalist machine and my right to tell BP to go fuck themselves?”

Eddie seems to have trouble formulating an answer for that and stifling his smile at the same time. In the lull, Eugene finds himself speaking up. “It wasn’t BP.”

“What?” Bill asks.

“It wasn’t BP. It was Pemex.”

“How do you know? Been following it?”

“Bill, it’s all that’s been on the radio since July,” Eugene says, a little incredulous.

Eddie raises his eyebrows at Bill as if making a point, and Bill scoffs. “They all gotta be held accountable, for all I care.”

The bell tinkles as Andy pokes his head in through the door, half-ready to walk back out again if the quirk of his lips is anything to go by. “Busy?”

“No,” Eddie replies, and a similar wry smile breaks on his face. “Good to see you. Need anything?”

“Just to steal one of your employees for the day. And coffee, if you have it.” He enters the shop and lets his hand brush Eddie’s arm as he passes, coming to stand beside him at the workbench and make a grab for his mug. “May I?”

“Please. Take Bill, too. He’s been having some trouble with proper workplace apparel recently.”

Andy pauses in his coffee-chugging to scan Bill’s shirt. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Bill crows.

“Although as Eugene has rightly pointed out, the Ixtoc thing wasn’t BP’s fault,” Eddie adds.

Andy waves a hand vaguely. “They all kind of suck, don’t they?”

Eddie sends him a look of reprimand, and Andy shrugs helplessly. “Turned on by my employee, and then by my own husband,” Eddie says, and Andy grins at the obvious strain Eddie is going through to keep his laughter at bay. “Get out of here before he gets fired and you end up on the couch.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Andy says.

“Oh?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one you guys are trying to win over?” Bill complains loudly. “Seeing as I’m being torn away from my real job to go do heavy lifting for Andy all day I think I deserve a little recognition. Hell, why can’t Gene go?”

“Gene has his own job to worry about,” Eddie cuts in neatly. “I hate to say it, Bill, but I don’t think you’re quite dressed up to head to North Nottingham today.”

Oh.

There is a terrible display of orchids sitting among the flowers at the end of the work station. It was foolish of him to forget they’d see each other today when there had been a delivery to North Nottingham every day before now—foolish of him to forget it when the events of the night prior had left his thoughts so jumbled and his nerves so frayed.

“The truck’s gassed,” Eddie supplies helpfully.

“Thanks,” Eugene murmurs, then snaps back to himself quickly. “Yeah. It’s about that time.”

He loads the van up quickly and sets out before he can think about it too much. It’s his job. There isn’t anything to be worried about. He does this every day.

Even so he keeps moving North Nottingham further and further down his list until finally there are only two addresses left. Sighing inwardly at his own cowardice he drives first to Gianna’s. He needs space to clear his head and a moment to quell his own nerves.

Gianna’s house is back to its usual pleasant hominess now that the rain has cleared. She’s put the wind chimes back out on her porch. They tinkle as Eugene walks past them and provide a countermelody to the birdsong and the ring of the doorbell. He closes his eyes to listen to it for a minute, straining to see if he can catch the sound of the waves on the wind. He feels as if they’re just out of reach, but at least the air is clean and cool. The last wisps of morning fog are scuttling along the sky, leaving everything feeling fresh and bright.

“Eugene,” Gianna’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, then passes her a vase of teddy bear sunflowers and watches as she coos over them. “Just tired.”

“Well, come in for a coffee.”

“I should probably be working,” he tells her grudgingly, and she tisks.

“Nonsense. Come inside. You look ready to drop. Come on. I was making some anyway, you know?”

He follows her into the house and takes his usual seat at the worn breakfast table while she putters around the stove. “Your friends are here,” she calls, nodding at the bird feeder hanging outside the window. A handful of house finches are circling around it, pecking at the seeds. “And a new one I don’t know. Oh, he’s gone but he’ll come back.”

She puts a tiny cup down in front of him and they drink in silence for a long minute, the coffee strong and spiced with something Eugene is never able to recognize but never fails to remind him of this kitchen with all its homey warmth. He thinks back to a kitchen in Mobile, linens starched and creased on the table in the dining room. He wonders if anyone in the house actually wants him back. Even if there’s a place carved out for him there he has no doubt he won’t quite fit anymore. Too few missed meals and too many days loading and unloading the truck will do that, and if they didn’t change his body then a few encounters at Nottingham altered the rest of him.

“What’s troubling you, _passerotto?_ ” Gianna asks quietly. “Matters of the heart, no? Surely your boy is not already causing trouble.”

“He isn’t mine,” Eugene replies.

“Bah. You know what I mean. Not yours, but where you go he wants to follow. You follow each other. Isn’t that what love is?”

He chooses not to answer that one for now. “We got in a little fight,” he says instead. “It should be okay. I just need to talk to him, I think. I’m heading over there next.”

“Hmm. Good luck. Speak from the heart and I’m sure it will almost take care of itself, yes?”

“I hope so,” he says with a sigh.

“You hope so? You should know,” she says, tapping the table next to his hand. “Be sure, and then it will happen.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” he says, but he can’t quite hide a smile. Trust her to always make him feel better in her own way.

“Ah, hush. Now look,” she says, gesturing to the window. “You see him?”

Eugene follows her gaze. There’s an orange bird on the birdfeeder. “He’s new.”

“No. He came yesterday. You know him?”

Eugene studies the white speckles on the black wings, his orange belly brilliant in the sun. “Grosbeak, I think. I haven’t seen one in a while.”

“Grosbeak. French, no?”

“I didn’t know you spoke French. What’s it mean?”

“Fat beak,” she says with a chortle, reaching for the clipboard Eugene left on the table and scanning the lines for her name.

“Fitting, with the size of that. He’s got a big nose.” He waits for the joke that never comes—no doubt he walked right into one just now—but Gianna doesn’t reply. When he looks over she’s squinting at the clipboard with a frown. “What?” he asks her.

“Merriell Richards,” she reads. “He is one of your clients.”

Oh. “Yes,” he ventures.

“You didn’t tell me this.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

She looks up at him then. “Eugene, who is he married to?”

“What?”

“I am not stupid. He is young and he is not from here. He is not even from where you come from. Don’t lie,” she continues when Eugene tries to cut in. “Eugene, I wasn’t born yesterday. Who did he marry to afford a house on North Nottingham?”

Eugene swallows. “He’s getting a divorce.”

“Who is he?”

“A lawyer. Lawrence Richards. You probably don’t know him. I didn’t.”

Gianna shrugs to indicate she doesn’t.

“Look,” he says, schooling his features into something that hopefully doesn’t look borderline unhinged. “I don’t know what happened or how they ended up together, but Merriell doesn’t love him. They’re negotiating right now. He’s gonna be done with him. I’m not just getting strung along in this.”

She purses her lips. “You’re smarter than that. I know this. And I like him,” she adds, then drains her coffee. “He is good for you, no?”

“I think he might be.”

“You’re happier,” she agrees. “Don’t be an idiot, _passerotto._ You understand? Don’t you lose sight of where you’re going. He’s leaving Richards? Fine. But you don’t get involved. You keep your head down until they’re done.”

“Is this your seal of approval?”

She tilts her head. “I don’t like it, but I trust you to do the right thing.”

He nods solemnly. “Thank you, Gianna.”

“You’re welcome.” She refills both their cups with deliberate motions. “I look out for you. You’re away from your home, so someone must do it. Don’t make me go over there and fight a man of the law. Okay?”

At a loss, he nods.

“Good. Now drink up and get over there.”

 

Nottingham is cold and dark as always. A minute after he knocks Merriell swings the door open, looking him over blankly before wordlessly turning and walking to the kitchen.

Eugene swings the door shut behind himself and follows. They say nothing as he sets the vase down on the counter then puts the clipboard silently next to it. Merriell reaches for it wordlessly.

“About yesterday,” Eugene starts, then licks his lips. “Can we talk?”

“Talk,” Merriell says as he uncaps the pen.

 “I’m sorry I brought him up,” Eugene starts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Merriell’s is focused completely on the paper in front of him as he painstakingly signs his name. “This ain’t about Lawrence, Gene.”

“What is it, then? The phone call?” Eugene asks, bemused. “I can’t commit to a job because I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and in the meantime I have a job I like just fine. I’m not going to drop everything and move out, alright? It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What doesn’t?” he asks as he caps the pen again.

“The fact I turned them down. Is that what you’re mad about?”

Merriell shakes his head, eyes tired. “I ain’t mad you did, I’m mad you didn’t.”

“What?”

“You didn’t do either, don’t you get it? Half-yes and half-no. Fuckin’ purgatory is what that is.”

“I don’t understand,” Eugene says. “Did you want me to take it?”

“It don’t matter,” he says, putting the pen down forcefully enough that it clacks loudly against the marble of the countertop. “Ain’t about what I want, alright? Don’t you—” He catches himself, falling silent.

Eugene studies him. “Just tell me,” he prompts finally.

“Eugene,” Merriell says, then quiets again with an angry slant to his mouth.

“I can’t keep guessing.”

“Don’t matter, anyway,” he mutters. He reaches to push the clipboard back toward Eugene, but as he does Eugene catches his wrist gently, pulling it up to press a kiss into the hollow below his thumb before letting go. Merriell blinks at him, surprised.

“I want,” he starts, then swallows. “Can’t we talk about it?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know.” He wants to make it better, whatever that is. He doesn’t know where to start when Merriell gets like this. His words circle around themselves and his actions are frustrated, driven by some inner violence he never seems able to express. He’s like that now, moving quick and jerky as he turns his focus suddenly onto Eugene once more.

“Well what, then?” he snaps.

Eugene blinks at him, at a loss. It just makes Merriell angrier.

“No, tell me. Go ahead. Tell me what the fuck you want.”

“Merriell—"

“What? You don’t know?”

His voice dies in his throat. They were the words he was going to say. They’re the only words he seems to know how to say these days.

Merriell scoffs. “Don’t you fucking get it? You don’t take what you want now, cher, someone’s gonna get to it first. Ain’t had to fight for a thing you’ve wanted in your life, have you? Rich kid like you.”

“Cut it out,” Eugene snaps finally, anger coming over him in a wave. “This isn’t about that and you know it.”

“Oh? Then what’s it about?”

“You tell me,” he grits out.

Merriell laughs. “I ain’t the one who barged in here asking questions.”

“And I’m not the one who ran out yesterday.”

“So that’s what you want? A fucking explanation? You ain’t thought about it yourself?”

“This isn’t about what I want.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s always been about what you want, Eugene,” Merriell practically shouts, pacing closer. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know!”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t fucking know, I told you!”

“Eugene, what the fuck do you want?” he yells, face twisted in anger and every bit as beautiful as Eugene had ever seen it.

“I want you!”

The fire dies abruptly in Merriell’s eyes.

They’re inches apart, chests heaving. It occurs to Eugene suddenly all the times they’d been caught in this position before, nearly pressed together and struggling to breathe evenly, eyes trained on each other and hearts on their sleeves. This is a cruel bastardization of that. All those times before had been gentle in their passion, forced confidence covering up the slight tremor of fingertips as they explored one another. He reaches up now, fingers twitchy with residual anger and nerves, then halts the motion before it even makes contact. His hand drops uselessly.

“I want you,” he repeats quietly. It hurts to say; God, does it hurt. It’s the most honest with himself he’s been in years and the fear of it makes him sick. He can’t take it back now, and he doesn’t want to. “I don’t know jack shit other than that.”

“Thought we were past the part where you won’t fuck a married man,” Merriell says.

“We’re way past that.”

Merriell scoffs and looks away. “Then why you still questioning this, huh? You want this, you take it. It’s that fucking simple. Just fucking,” his fingers twitch before he balls them, restless, “do what you want to do. Ain’t nobody gonna stop you.”

“There’s a couple people who want to stop us.”

“You gonna let them?”

“I should.”

“You _gonna_? You gonna let anyone stop you from getting what you want when it’s right there?”

Eugene frowns. He doesn’t know what Merriell’s talking about anymore, but he sounds borderline mad with it. “I want this,” he says placatingly. “That’s all I know, Shelton. If you want this then I want this, too. Okay?”

Merriell looks like he wants to hit him; for a second Eugene thinks he might. But when he surges forward it’s just to crush their lips together.

It’s desperate and mean, but Eugene doesn’t fault him for it. He gives as good as he gets because this is the way they are sometimes; crashing against each other, sometimes the need to be together is more important than the process of getting there.

They end up on the kitchen floor, grinding against each other shamelessly. The tile is hard against the back of his head. He may well bruise from it, but when Merriell catches his eye the softness Eugene sees there betrays his actions. He doesn’t mean it like that; understands the need that’s consuming Eugene to his core and knows how it can come out in these moments of harshness, but doesn’t mean to be cruel in his own right. Once again he’s matching Eugene step for step before Eugene even really understands where they’re going.

They’re silent, after.

Eugene watches the light from outside play across the ceiling. Golden warmth is still running sluggish through his veins, dulling the hardness of the floor underneath him. He wants to say something to break the terrible silence but the words don’t come. It’s probably for the best, anyway: better they lie silent and separate in the afterglow than break through its last dregs only to fight each other again.

Merriell breaks the silence for him. “It ain’t gonna be enough,” he says finally.

Eugene frowns at the ceiling. “What?”

“I don’t know how long you wanna play suburban scandal for, cher,” he replies quietly. “It’s a good rush, but it ain’t gonna be enough.”

It’s the first time Eugene has heard him sound regretful, and he tilts his head to face him. Merriell is toying with his shirt where it’s landed on the floor beneath him. He’d probably be shredding it if he could. “What are you talking about?” Eugene murmurs.

“C’mon, Eugene,” he says. “It feels good, but this is temporary. You know that. I know you ain’t staying here forever.” And there it is—the warmth in his veins being replaced by granite. When he’s silent for a beat Merriell looks up finally to meet his eyes. “Ain’t no secret. Neither of us are gonna be here for long. I got nothing to stick around for.”

He swallows. “Right,” he hears himself say, and blessedly it comes out level. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Do me a favor,” Merriell says then, and a hint of a smile reaches his mouth. “Don’t become a wrinkled old bastard with a PhD looking for the next hot young thing to fuck for thrills, alright? I don’t know what the fuck you want. Hell,” he adds with a brittle laugh, “Maybe you don’t know, either. Stick around here forever though, and you’re never gonna find out. Whatever you want to do, won’t you just do it already?”

He could cry. He won’t, but he could.

It’s too much—the thinly veiled rejection he doesn’t even want to think about because for all the layers to his shell he thought Merriell felt something, surely. It isn’t just his pretty eyes or his soft lips, isn’t just the way they move together and fit together and breathe together. There’s something alien and soft in Eugene’s chest, in the back of his head. There’s something there and surely Merriell is aware of it too.

He’ll never be bored of this.

He wants things, things he isn’t sure he’ll be allowed to have in his life. His future is tangled in knots, and Merriell feels just out of reach and further every day. There’s another thing he wants but can’t have, another trigger he can’t quite pull yet. He can’t keep him and yet he can’t let him go.

He can’t _just do it already._ He can’t do anything. Not right now. Maybe someday.

“Won’t you?” he replies quietly.

He resolutely swallows the lump in his throat as Merriell sighs heavily before curling into him, head tucked under Eugene’s nose and their bodies pressed together despite the cooling sweat still on their skin. It’s a little gross, but Eugene can’t bring himself to care. If this is what Merriell wanted then he can’t bring himself to care about much of anything other than pulling him closer and watching the sun bounce off the pool outside the window. If his eyes grow watery for a moment then, well, that’s just from the light.

 

When Eugene finally makes it home later that night he lays in bed on top of the sheets, watching what few stars he can see move slowly across the light-polluted sky for what feels like hours. Sleep won’t come and he didn’t expect it too. His head is too full as it is, the jumble of thoughts a puzzle great enough to keep him up for days.

It must be nearly midnight when one finally pokes through the haze. He turns it over and over like a stone in the bay, too scared to do much else with it. It’s too much to whisper, too fresh and fragile to release into the world. Finally he gropes across his windowsill for the first book he can find. His fingers skid over a pile of textbooks before landing on his bible, tucked half-forgotten in the corner. He flips it open and writes quickly in the margins by the light of the street lamps outside.

_I want to get out of here._

There; it’s out. There it is physically. He closes the pages carefully. It’s hidden but it’s still there.

His life is going on around him. The flower shop is dark and waiting for morning down the street. His parents are surely asleep in Alabama; his professors are probably asleep here in California, and Reid’s department with its labs and experiments are shut down for the night. His phone number is still hanging on Eugene’s bulletin board, shrouded in darkness and invisible from here. Richards is in the city somewhere, maybe awake and working or maybe asleep in a hotel. His husband is drifting around that mansion in the elegantly sloping hill of North Nottingham, or maybe he’s curled in the quiet peace of his bed, the fine bits of cloth scattered around his room swaying in the breeze from the window and the broken watch on his dresser resolutely not ticking along. Maybe there are stars over the sea; maybe he can see more from his room than Eugene can from his own.

He wants to get out of here. He needs to get out of here, but he can’t do it yet.

He rolls over. A long time passes before he finally drifts off.

 

That day sets the tone for the week.

He feels like he’s walking on eggshells with everyone he knows, unsteady and overly careful on what was once even ground. He feels like his secrets could be discovered any day now; he feels like his whole world could come crumbling down around him, for no other reason than something is bound to go wrong eventually.

It isn’t just his employment that is driving him crazy, though of course that is, too. The idea feels like a living thing crawling across the back of his brain, just a little too sneaky to shake. He wants things and he is allowed to have them. If he can, he should.

He thinks about leaving the city, and he can’t do it.

He turns it over as he trims the new shipment of roses down, shoulder to shoulder with Bill. He’ll decide tomorrow. One more day.

He turns it over as he comes home to his shitty apartment, sunlight illuminating the dust motes. One more week.

He thinks of it briefly, Merriell a warm weight in his lap, fingers tracing over Eugene’s lips and eyes dark as Eugene bites the pad of his thumb lightly. Not yet. Thinks of it as Merriell looks at him with an expression that shouldn’t be allowed, that counters everything he’d said about how this is only a matter of convenience; some softness of feeling that cuts down to Eugene’s core. Not yet, not yet.

He doesn’t think about it as they lie side by side. Can’t think about it every afternoon as Merriell opens the door and carelessly puts the bouquet of the day aside on some counter. Eugene’s arrival is all he cares about these days. He doesn’t think about the future. He can’t.

 

“It’s gonna hit Texas,” Bill says conversationally.

Eugene looks up from the pile of old blossoms he’d been sorting through. “What?”

“The spill, dipshit.”

Eugene sends him a long-suffering look.

“Come on. I know you’ve been following it.” He studies Eugene’s face for a second. “No? Burgie, what about you?”

“What’s that?” Burgie calls from the counter.

“They’re saying the spill’s gonna hit Texas. Thought you might know about it.”

“Jewett ain’t near the coast, Bill,” Burgie replies. “Still, though. Damn mess is what it all is. What else is in there?”

Bill flips through the paper carelessly. “Eh. Not much. Oh, the leader of the Crips got shot.” At Eugene and Burgie’s blank looks he squints at them. “Seriously?”

Burgie shrugs. “Don’t know him.”

“I don’t get how you guys have lived in California for this long and you haven’t picked up a thing.”

“Maybe because we’ve been busy doing our jobs,” Burgie says drily.

Bill waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You guys are no fun.”

Eugene turns back to his work as the three of them fall silent once more. He can only hold off for a minute before his curiosity gets the better of him. “What are they saying?”

“About the Crips?”

“No, about Ixtoc.”

He can feel Bill’s eyes on him. “Thought you didn’t care.”

“I care.”

“Just tell us, Bill,” Burgie pipes up. “We all know you want to, anyway.”

“You could just read it for yourself,” Bill replies.

“Please?”

Bill sighs. “That’s basically all of it. They’re trying to curb the effects but they can’t stop the actual leak yet. It’s still dumping a ridiculous amount of oil into the gulf every day. They’re doing as much as they can but it’s still getting worse.”

“No news there, then,” Burgie mutters.

“I’m telling you, the only real news these days is the gossip rags. This’ll be the same thing every day: no change, nothing we can do, end of story.”

“That’s a bit nihilistic of you,” Eugene says.

Bill squints at him. “So?”

“Well, are we just supposed to tune out like that? We can’t fix it immediately, so we might as well not even pay attention?”

“Listen, Eugene,” Bill says knowingly. “We work damn hard to get by.”

Burgie hums uncertainly. “We work kind of hard. Sometimes.”

“Alright,” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “We work kind of hard on occasion, and sometimes we work pretty hard but that’s rare. The point is, everyone’s just going through the motions of it. I pay attention to what I can’t change and I know that I can’t change it. I spend my time on things that make me happy. Everyone needs a release.” He rolls up the paper and swats at Eugene’s arm. “You would know.”

Eugene frowns, swatting him away. “What?”

“Your afternoon delight? Roadside stop?”

Eugene sighs.

“Your route hookup. Come on. When are you gonna spill?”

“I’m not ever going to spill,” he says. “I told you. Nothing’s happening.”

“Bull. Shit.”

Eugene looks to Burgie for assistance, but Burgie is pointedly looking away. “I don’t think this is entirely professional,” he says loudly, hoping to get his attention.

Burgie’s eyes flit up briefly and then back down.

“Who is it? You started acting weird about a month ago, so probably someone new.”

“Bill, let it go. It's nobody.”

“Eugene,” he says seriously, then starts laughing. “Then who’s been chewing on your neck?”

He frowns, wrestling internally with myself. “It’s—I’ve been seeing someone.”

“Yeah, no shit. Who is it?”

“Just someone I met a while ago, okay? They’ve been staying over recently. That’s all.”

“What’s the harm in telling me, anyway?”

“Bill,” Burgie finally says. “If he doesn’t want to tell you he doesn’t have to.”

Eugene shoots him a flat look. If he wanted to help he should’ve done it five minutes ago. Bill holds his hands up in mock surrender all the same. “I’ll get it out of you eventually, Genie,” he says as he steps out of the room.

“Ignore him,” Burgie says after a beat.

“Don’t know why he cares so much in the first place,” Eugene mutters. “What does it matter, anyway?”

“Better you just tell him. He’s more interested in watching you squirm than anything.”

Eugene frowns. Were Bill to find out who’s been sleeping in Eugene’s bed he’d probably have a whole new arsenal of things to tease him for. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

Of course, nothing can stay hidden forever. He knows as much. Maybe he should’ve planned ahead for that.

Their world comes crashing to a halt on a Wednesday.

No, that's a bit dramatic. In the end nothing really changes. Their world gets marginally more complicated on a Wednesday.

Eugene is trapped against the counter by Merriell's legs around his waist. He can't bring himself to care when Merriell is watching him with bright eyes and a small smile and keeps pressing their lips together every few seconds.

“I already told you,” he’s teasing, and Eugene drags him down for a kiss himself this time.

“Tell me again,” Eugene says. He can feel Merriell’s smile.

“You already know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I want you.”

When they kiss again it’s needy, and Eugene feels his stomach swoop. He’s chasing Merriell’s lips all too soon as they part, another few painful centimeters between them that would be all too easy to close. The tension of it fizzes through his blood.

“Won't you say it back?”

“I want you,” Eugene says without hesitation, and the inflection of it is all wrong for that particular four letter word but he opens his eyes Merriell is watching him, his face soft. “I want you terribly.”

Merriell’s eyes crinkle and he’s being tugged in again by a hand against the back of his neck. Their lips brush again, electric and warm, just the barest first touch before they sink into one another once more.

That’s when the front door swings open.

“Merriell?” A voice calls.

Eugene has barely a moment to pull back and register the panic in Merriell’s eyes before footsteps approach rapidly and enter the kitchen. They spring apart, but not nearly fast enough. When Eugene looks up he’s faced with none other than Lawrence Richards, Esquire.

Silence reigns for several long seconds. It's Lawrence who finally breaks it. “You’re cheating on me?” He asks blankly.

Merriell scoffs.

“With him? Aren't you the—the fucking flower boy?”

Eugene shifts uncomfortably, and Merriell rolls his eyes. “So what if he is?” He snaps.

“I send you flowers and you screw the fucking delivery boy? Are you serious?”

“Fuck off. Last I checked it ain’t your business.”

“And last I checked you’re still my husband. Nothing is concrete yet.”

“Oh, that’s cute.”

Eugene shuffles uncomfortably. “Look, I can see myself out if--”

“No,” the two of them snap in unison before turning back to each other.

“You can't leave me that easily,” Lawrence says darkly. “You think just because you have your side piece now that it'll all work out? You are nothing without me. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” Merriell drawls, sliding off the counter and landing neatly on his feet.

“You are nothing. No money, no status. I made you everything that you are. You can't just leave me, not without losing everything.”

“That's what all them legal fees are for, right? I ain't walking without getting my fair share, and you can be sure of that.”

“You aren't walking at all. You belong at my side.”

“Come on, Eugene,” Merriell mutters, catching his sleeve and dragging him toward the front door.

Lawrence chases after them. “You think you're getting away from this? I made you. You belong to me.”

Eugene isn't sure if he wants to run or turn around and hit the man. He only has one choice either way. If they stay here any longer there’s going to be a full-on fight if the fire in Merriell’s eyes is any indication. He unlocks the door to the truck as quickly as he can before leaning over to let Merriell in. He slides into the passenger seat in nothing but his robe, slamming the door even as Lawrence continues yelling through the glass.

Eugene starts the car as fast as he can. The Diesel engine manages to drown out some of Lawrence’s words as he continues to yell from the porch. “Where—”

“Just drive,” Merriell says curtly, and without hesitation Eugene stomps on the gas and whisks them down the driveway away until Lawrence is just a speck in the rear view mirror. “Your place. I don't care.”

Eugene glances over at him as he turns onto the route home. He’s glaring out the window, paying no heed to his state of undress as he does his best to melt the cars around them with his gaze alone. Eugene swallows. “He doesn't know what he’s talking about,” he tries.

“No shit.” His fingers twitch restlessly. Eugene barely catches it out of the corner of his eye, some sort of cut off reach toward something that isn't there. “He knows I'm leaving him. I ain't just fucking around this time.”

“You mean you've tried before?”

“Threatened, yeah. Sure.” His fingers twitch again. “Warning shots. He always found a way to guilt me into staying. He knows he ain't got shit now.”

“Why'd you marry a guy like him in the first place?”

“Why do you think?” Merriell scoffs.

There’s an obvious answer, but it isn't the kind of thing Eugene wants to assume. He swallows uncomfortably and holds his peace as he parks outside his building, and a second later Merriell scoffs at him again.

“We helped each other, cher. I got something to line my pockets and he got a pretty young thing to call his own. Common arrangement in his line of work.”

“You ain't his,” Eugene grumbles. “He doesn't get to call you his own.” He slides out of the truck and starts toward the door, and he can hear Merriell laughing in disbelief as he follows. When he turns to look back Merriell is drawing his fair share of attention with his robe glimmering in the sun and his feet bare against the concrete.

“Sweet, Eugene. Whose am I, then?”

A passing group of people let their eyes linger a second too long on the silk brushing the tops of his thighs, and Eugene sends them a sharp glare as he swings the door open and gestures for Merriell to enter ahead of him. “Nobody’s. You're your own.”

“Gloriously naive. Everybody belongs to someone in this country.”

“Not you.”

“I’m not yours?”

Eugene frowns. “Why the hell would you be mine?”

Merriell gives him a halfhearted smirk as Eugene unlocks the door to his apartment. “Answer the question.”

“I just did. You don’t belong to anybody, least of all me.”

He takes a seat on the edge of Eugene’s unmade bed and spots the box holding Eugene’s pipe on the shelf above the headboard. The latch opens with a click and he takes in the contents. “Didn’t take you for the type. Any tobacco in here?”

“It’s old,” Eugene says.

Merriell shrugs and begins filling the pipe anyway. “What if I wanted to?”

It takes Eugene’s brain a minute to catch up to that. “Wanted to what?”

“Belong to someone.”

“Do you?”

Merriell lights it neatly, wincing at the taste before blowing a lazy smoke ring. “Answer the question.”

“Answer mine,” Eugene snaps.

“No.”

“No, you don’t want to? Or no, you won’t?”

“No, I won’t,” Merriell says, “You first, and then maybe.”

Eugene rolls his eyes. He crosses the room and takes the pipe from Merriell’s hands, propping it up on the nightstand before pressing him into the mattress. It makes Merriell’s lips quirk up. “If you told me you wanted to belong to someone I’d ask you who you are and what you’d done with Merriell Shelton.”

Merriell grins and blows a lungful of smoke into his face. “Don’t know me that well.”

“Don’t I? Do you want to belong to someone?”

“No, but I wanna be owned.”

That has Eugene reeling back. “What?”

“Fuck me,” Merriell says.

Eugene stares.

“Burnin’ daylight,” he adds.

“You want…” Eugene starts, then trails off. He feels himself blush and Merriell grins, eyes heavy-lidded like a cat.

“You heard me.” He strains to reach Eugene’s nightstand and gropes around before dragging a bottle of lube out, pressing it into his hand. “Good thing you’ve got this. What’ve you been up to, hmm?”

Eugene looks at it silently, then back up at him. The question he’s trying to put into words must be written all over his face, because something in Merriell’s eyes soften. He drags him down for a kiss, pulling away as soon as Eugene starts relaxing into it.

“You said I don’t belong to anyone,” he says against Eugene’s mouth. “That I don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Eugene whispers.

“Well I did. I did. According to the judge I still do.” His eyes meet Eugene’s then, pale and distant as always. “Make me forget that.”

Make him forget. It’s a challenge as much as anything else Merriell had ever given him. There’s a lot to forget: Richards to start with, and then their marriage and the divorce and the things he’d yelled through the glass of the window not an hour earlier. Lawrence believes Merriell is his, and not even Merriell seems entirely convinced of the contrary.

The last one to love him before Eugene—the last one to see the way his lips get red from kissing and the way his cheeks flush and his eyes go hazy, the last one to hear him moan when he comes and sigh after, boneless and warm—the last one to love him had been someone who seems to see him as little more than a trophy. He doesn’t want to think about any of that. Merriell doesn’t want his sympathy, but he doesn’t want to remember his past either.

That’s what Eugene is supposed to be here for.

He kisses him, warm and familiar. He lowers some of his weight carefully down onto Merriell until he’s pressed more heavily into the mattress, but Merriell just tugs him even closer with blunt fingernails against Eugene’s shoulder blades. Eugene pops the bottle open with one hand, ignoring the tremor in his own fingertips. He tries to quell his own nerves. There isn’t any reason to be nervous, not here.

“You wanna forget everybody else,” Eugene murmurs to himself. He squeezes some of the liquid onto his fingers and warms it between them.

“You gonna make me?”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were getting romantic on me, Shelton.”

Merriell grins, hazy. “What, _fuck me_ wasn’t romantic enough for you?”

Eugene traces his fingers over his entrance finally and watches his lips part. He has to lean down to kiss him then, to swallow the tiny gasp he lets out when Eugene pushes the tip of his index finger inside him. When he pulls back Merriell’s brow is furrowed; he stars working him open as he presses a kiss to that too, willing him to relax. “There you go,” he hears himself murmur as his forehead smooths again.

Merriell hums. “You can go faster than that,” he gets out. “I ain’t gonna break.”

Eugene contemplates that. He isn’t sure how to say he doesn’t want to. He wants time to document this in his head, to catalogue every sound and movement he makes and store away their causes for later. He keeps stretching him methodically instead, ignoring his commands and taunts until Merriell gives up and devolves into moaning wordlessly and humming Eugene’s name like a prayer.

By the time he’s three fingers in Merriell is restless beneath him, neck bared as he tosses his head to the side, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between his teeth. Something about it makes Eugene feel-- _something_. He can't name it, a churning wave in his chest. He lowers Merriell’s jaw with his thumb until his lips part again and then covers them with his own, kisses him slow and deep as he pushes into him finally. He can feel Merriell’s jaw go slack momentarily, can feel his cut off groan in his own chest.

It's good like this, unhurried and warm. The intimacy of the moment is grounding somehow. For all Merriell’s bravado this is still a first in a long string of firsts. He wants to remember the details of it and bottle them so he can swim in them later: the light through the blinds casting stripes across the sheets, purple-gold-purple, the smell of salt on their skin mixing with the cool marine air drifting through the window, Merriell’s blue eyes taken over by black, glassy as he looks at Eugene, the warmth of his fingers as they trace down the side of his neck; the sweetness of all of it. It's nice in a way he’d been taught such things shouldn't be; easy and natural and good in a way he'd always been told they weren't.

It isn't what Merriell asked for, though.

Eugene kisses him again as he starts to move, covers the fine lines of his body with his own and puts every feeling he has into it. He feels Merriell moan and lets him pull away so he can take gasping breaths against Eugene’s ear, fingers twitching restlessly against his shoulders before digging in harshly to score lines down his back. When Eugene bites sharply under his jaw he moans again and then lets out a breathless laugh, more of a rush of air than anything.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Hold me down.” His tone is distant and happy, and when Eugene meets his eyes they're still hazy. His smile is contagious. Eugene has no idea what they're doing but he’s pretty sure laughing about it isn't generally part of the program. Nonetheless it looks right on Merriell’s face, equal parts satisfaction and challenge.

He can hold both his wrists in one hand, skinny as they are. They feel delicate in his grip, the knobs of them digging into his palm. He holds them as gently as he can manage while still keeping them pinned.

“Can be rougher than that.”

He's not lying. There isn't any lying here with their faces millimeters apart and their air in each other’s lungs. “I don't want to hurt you,” Eugene says, because he can't lie.

“And you ain’t gonna,” Merriell breathes, and that can't be a lie either.

He pushes him into the mattress until his breath catches and then holds him there, secure and warm. It isn't as if he isn't trapped too, after all. Merriell's legs are gangly and vicelike around his hips, doing as much to set the pace as Eugene is. He's always been bossy. Eugene never doubted it, but this is his proof.

Maybe that's why he wants to be pushed around so bad.

Eugene raises his free hand to get a grip on his hair and Merriell’s breath catches. When Eugene tugs his head to the side to bite at his neck Merriell lets out a soft moan, startled and gentle. When Eugene pulls back to look at him his eyes are closed. They flicker open again to meet Eugene’s own.

“You like it like this.”

Merriell doesn't need to answer; the look on his face is enough. His drunken nod when Eugene tightens his grip on his wrists only confirms it, his arms flexing restlessly before he flops into the mattress once more.

“You like being pushed around, is that it?”

Merriell is watching him now, lips parted.

“You never ask for it.” No, that isn't right. He’s hit suddenly with the memory of countless times before: Merriell’s eyelashes fluttering when Eugene held his hips down a bit too hard, breath catching when Eugene’s thumb graced over his throat, doing his best to disguise a gasp when Eugene pushed him a bit too rough against the wall and kissed him a bit too mean. “Not from me, at least. Who’ve you been getting it from, huh? Him?”

Merriell mutters something in French, and Eugene leans impossibly closer. The new angle has Merriell arching below him with a curse. “What? Eugene asks.

Merriell seems to come back to himself at that. “Jealous?” he gasps.

“That’s not what you said.”

“So you are.”

Eugene pins him down harder, fucks him harder—anything to get him to shut up, and Merriell arches into him with a groan as his words die in his throat. A moment later he starts mumbling again. It’s a string of nonsense Eugene can’t understand, even pressing his cheek against Merriell’s so he can hear him better. “What are you saying?” he asks finally, wondering at the softness of his tone. He gets nothing but another handful of mumbled words in response and he tries again, saying it like it’s a command. “Merriell.”

He arches against Eugene again. “Eugene, please,” and he’s tugging weakly at Eugene’s grip.

Eugene has a flash of guilt at that--but no, this is what he’d asked for. He knows his body. He knows the exact strength in those wiry arms. If he wanted to be free he’d be free five minutes ago. He lets go of his hair to get a grip on his cock and Merriell stops struggling, spine tense and breath quick. He slows his thrusts to match the movement of his hand, slow and lazy.

“What are you saying?” he asks him again.

Merriell whines. “Move.”

“Tell me,” Eugene repeats, kissing his jaw to soften the coldness of it. Maybe Merriell doesn’t need the warmth, but Eugene feels lost without it. He traces the underside of his cock with his thumb and watches Merriell squirm. It makes Eugene tighten his grip on his wrists momentarily, and Merriell’s eyes flutter closed. “This?” he asks, squeezing once.

Merriell nods and lets out another unintelligible murmur.

“Tell me,” Eugene says, tone hard, and pushes into him more forcefully.

“Wanna feel it,” Merriell says, voice small and quiet. “Gimme something.”

At a loss, Eugene presses harder until his thumb is digging into the bone. It can’t be comfortable, but Merriell just moans.

“Something for tomorrow,” he continues.

“They’re gonna see,” Eugene says uncertainly.

The thought of it alone has him embarrassed, but Merriell just smiles hazily. “Want them to.”

He eyes the skin just below Merriell’s jaw, flawless and smooth. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He can almost feel the guilt already, but when he cranes his neck down Merriell’s breath catches in anticipation.

“Eugene,” he whispers, fingers clenched into fists.

Eugene drops a kiss there once, warm and chaste, before digging his teeth in as hard as he can bring himself to. Merriell thrashes beneath him, seemingly torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. He moans loud in Eugene’s ear as he tightens his jaw one more time, then goes limp. Eugene slows the motion of his hips to a standstill as he pulls back, and Merriell’s eyes are glassy, the unmistakable pattern of indentations dark red on his neck. It’s only then that Eugene notices the slick wetness across his hand.

“You alright?” he whispers, tracing over the mark with a thumb.

It makes Merriell twitch before he reaches up to touch it with ring-heavy fingers, smiling when he feels the outline. “Alright,” he whispers.  

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“That was kind of the idea.” He prods Eugene in the back with his heel. “Move. C’mon.”

“Are you sure?”

“You heard me,” he replies, then sighs when Eugene does. He laughs breathlessly when Eugene traces the mark on his neck one last time. “I’m fine, relax. Wouldn’t have asked in the first place if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“You trust me,” Eugene mutters, mostly to himself.

_“Seulement toi.”_

“What?”

Merriell rolls his head restlessly, the lines of his neck standing out. He feels too small to be held this way suddenly, as if between one breath and the next some part of Eugene remembered just how precious he is. He releases his wrists and links their hands together, fingers locked together warm and secure. It’s only then that Merriell speaks. “Only you.”

Something about that goes right to Eugene’s head like a nicotine rush. He’s dizzy with it suddenly, energy and power sparking through his brain even as something settles in his chest.

“It’s only you.”

He feels like the feeling between his lungs is too big for his body; like he could explode with it and take Merriell with him. He squeezes Merriell’s fingers and leans closer so he can hear the words still spilling out of his mouth.

“Love it when it’s you,” he breathes as an afterthought.

Eugene gasps against his neck. It’s good; it’s too good, numbingly good. He can map every point where their bodies touch in his head, burning-hot as they are. He lets out a sound he isn’t sure is words or not.

It must make sense to Merriell. He squeezes his fingers right back and nudges their cheeks together. “Eugene,” he murmurs.

Just like that Eugene is in free fall, the world around him somehow black and silent as electric warmth races through his bones. He can feel himself floating; can feel his own heartbeat and Merriell’s breathing against his chest, can feel their hands clasped together. Can feel the sheets below them and the air cool against his back.

The world comes back slowly. Merriell hisses as he pulls out, then sighs when he lays down again after throwing the condom into the bin.

“You’re gonna need concealer,” he murmurs conversationally as Merriell tries to subtly scoot closer.

Merriell grins. “No, I’m not.”

The aching feeling is back in his chest, too much all at once. It isn’t pleasure and it isn’t passion. Eugene isn’t an idiot—he may not have a lot of experience in this area, but he’s read enough shitty romance novels to understand it.

He knows what love is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter inspired by a conversation overheard between two baby boomers in Detroit discussing the first albums they bought. One was roasted for having a Beatles album in a time when Motown and funk were taking over, and the other was made fun of for having a Marvin Gaye album that was decidedly too schmaltzy and Not Cool Enough in the era of the OJ’s and Parliament. That’s the experience that spans generations, honestly. Who listened to cool music in their teens?
> 
> Nothing against MPG, though. Fab album and very important in the inspiration of this fic. 
> 
> The F U BP shirt was reportedly something my mother witnessed in the late 70’s. I don’t know if they’re still for sale, but I’d sure like to!
> 
> Anyway, please tell me what you guys think. I always love to hear it. If you see any typos/errors don't hesitate to let me know, as this is unbeta'd and all. Thanks so much for sticking with me after so long, and I swear it won’t be such a wait next time around!


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up before the sun the next morning, nerves already chewing at his gut. Merriell is dead-asleep next to him, face soft and lips slightly parted. The gold light of the street lamps outside is framing his curls in a halo, the cool blue of dawn washing across the smooth skin at the small of his back. Eugene leaves him there and slips out of bed, getting ready for the day quickly.

It’s only when he’s putting his shoes on that Merriell stirs. “Wrassat?” he grumbles, and Eugene stifles a smile.

“Good morning,” he whispers. The day is still soft and fragile around the edges, too easily broken by sound.

“Practically night still, cher.” Merriell curls deeper into the blankets. He yawns against a pillow. “Got work?”

“Yeah. Need to go talk to Eddie. You can sleep a while longer if you want.”

Merriell lets out a sigh. He’s already halfway back to sleep before Eugene is even done talking, and Eugene spares him one last glance before heading to the door.

The shop isn't quite open yet, but he knows Eddie is already there. He heads down the alley and slips through the back door quietly, following the light to the front room. “Eddie?”

“Here,” he says from the workbench. There’s a cup of coffee at his elbow and a book of finances in front of him. “I didn't expect you in this early.”

“Yeah. I needed to talk to you.”

He takes his reading glasses off. “Have a seat.”

Eugene sits warily. He knows he needs to come clean. How to do it, he’s less sure of. Luckily Eddie saves him from figuring it out. He studies him for a long moment before speaking.

“I got a call the other day,” Eddie says finally.

Eugene blinks.

“From a Lawrence Richards, esquire. One of our more well-paying customers.”

“Eddie, I can explain,” Eugene starts hurriedly.

“Was he lying to me?”

“No.”

“I thought maybe he was,” Eddie replies quietly, eyes calm and unwavering as always. “I like to think I know my employees pretty well. Would you agree with that?”

“I—yes.”

“Yeah. That’s why I know this isn’t like you. You don’t do stuff like this, Eugene.”

“I know. I don’t.” He’s hit suddenly with the memory of Merriell’s fingers laced in his own, spidery and cool against the sheets. A single eye watching him over the soft down of a pillow, his skin warm and inviting next to the white cotton. “I shouldn’t have done it,” he says, and doesn’t mean a word.

“You must have had a reason, then. A good one.”

Eugene nods numbly. “I did, Eddie. I do.”

“What is it?”

A thousand things come to mind: the warmth of him, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling against Eugene’s own, the storminess that takes over his eyes seemingly at random, his sweet drawl and quiet laugh. His blankness when he’s been alone and the gentleness he brings when he comes quietly out of his shell. “He makes me happy,” he gets out. “I think I make him happy, too. He’s away from home and he doesn’t know where he’s going, and I was able to make him happy. I was able to make him stop worrying about all of it for a while.”

It isn’t until the words are out that he wonders whether he’s talking about Merriell or himself. Judging from Eddie’s face, he’s wondering the same thing. “I worry about you, kid.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do anyway, though.” He sighs. “Andy, too. You know where you’re going?”

Eugene shakes his head.

“Talked to your parents recently?”

“No.” Not for days, more than he can count.

“Do you love him?”

The shine of his eyes comes back to him, and the rasp of fabric against skin as Merriell shifts closer. The smell of his skin, sweet like jasmine and undercut by sweat and sex. His hand in Eugene’s. His voice in Eugene’s ear, breath warm as he whispers. _What do you want, Cherie?_ The softness of his lips and the way they tremble against Eugene’s own sometimes, gentle like rain.

_Dis moi ce que tu veux, mon beaux._

“I could,” Eugene murmurs. “I think I might.”

Eddie sighs again. “You know I can’t just let this go, as much as I want to. Richards is an asshole and I don’t give a fuck about what he thinks, but we’re going to lose customers over this.”

Eugene swallows. “Are you gonna let me go?”

“No. God, no. Like I said, he’s a dick.” Eddie watches him for a minute. “Take the day,” he says finally. “Take three. We’ll call it a suspension. I’m guessing you need some time to figure all this out, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Eugene nods. “I do. I—thank you, Eddie. It won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” Eddie replies, and now there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I think one boyfriend at a time is enough, don’t you?”

Boyfriend.

Is that what they are?

He feels numb with relief as he stumbles out the back door. A suspension will hurt. He needs the money—lord knows he does—yet it could’ve been so much worse. At least he’s still got his job.

He climbs the stairs to his apartment and opens the door as quietly as he can. The sun is still a good ways away from rising and Merriell is still sleeping soundly in Eugene’s bed. He looks right in Eugene’s space and something about the sight has a loose gear settling back into place in his frazzled mind. He strips and slides back into bed, Merriell grumbling sleepily as the mattress dips and jostles him.

“You’re back,” he mumbles.

“I don’t have work,” he replies, then swallows. “I got suspended.”

Merriell is quiet so long Eugene thinks he might’ve fallen asleep again. It’s only his breathing that tips him off, the measured rhythm of the waking world. “I’m sorry,” he says finally.

“It’ll be okay,” Eugene murmurs back.

Merriell sighs, one last breath of quiet discontent before he’s drifting off to sleep. With nothing better to do Eugene follows on his heels.

 

When he wakes again he’s alone.

The other side of the bed is cool and empty and one of his shirts is missing from the chair by his desk. He tries not to be disappointed as he stretches. It’s likely for the best. Merriell has his own things to be doing, his own life to be dealing with. It’s ridiculous to wish he’d just stay lurking around Eugene’s space all day.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish it anyway in some private part of his head.  

He spends most of the day at the library just for something to do. He sifts through a few newspapers for job offers, but the truth is nothing catches his eye. Between political drivel and increasingly depressing coverage of environmentalists’ increasingly desperate legal battle over the oil spill newspapers have become something he tends to avoid, much as he shouldn’t. He ends up buried in a scientific journal instead and doesn’t catch himself until later that evening, abandoning his stack of newspapers in a rush and hurrying home.

A neighbor is leaving his own apartment just as Eugene is nearing his, and the man nods to him. “Eugene.”

“Mr. Haney,” Eugene greets.

“Thought I’d see you in the shop today.”

“Oh. You stopped by?”

“I did.” He clears his throat in uncharacteristic awkwardness. “Eddie said you’d been having some problems at work.”

“That’s true, yes,” Eugene says hesitantly. He isn’t sure how much Haney knows and in all honesty he doesn’t want him to know if he doesn’t already.

“Issues with a customer?”

“Something along those lines. I’m just taking some time off to get it all sorted out. I should be back in a few days.”

Haney nods, accepting that. “Good. That’s good. I’ll see you around, kid.”

“See you, sir.”

Haney shuffles off down the hall and Eugene lets out a sigh before entering his apartment. He snoops through the cabinets for something to eat. When nothing presents itself he reads for a few hours, staying up to see if Merriell will find his way back.

He doesn’t.

Haney is the last soul Eugene sees until late morning the next day, when he’s awoken by someone pounding on the door.

“One minute,” he calls back. He throws the sheets over his bed in a hurry, glancing around quickly to make sure the space is more or less presentable. He pulls a pair of jeans on as fast as he can, foregoing a shirt. If it’s Merriell the thing will probably end up on his floor again anyway.

Merriell knocks again.

He looks around one more time before turning the deadbolt. “Mer—”

Bill pushes inside. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” Eugene says lamely, then leans against the door to close it.

Bill looks around as if Merriell is going to jump out of a corner at any time. “Route pussy, huh? Got you in trouble?”

“I take it you’re not liking running deliveries.”

“Don’t be cute with me.”

“Then don’t be mad. It’s my business.”

“Merriell Richards,” Bill says. “Are you serious?”

“Bill,” he starts.

Bill bursts out laughing, hands on his knees with the force of it.

Eugene stares at him for one minute, then two. “Are you done?” he asks sharply when Bill stops to gasp for air.

“Sorry,” Bill pants. “Didn’t think you had the balls.”

“Look, it just happened, alright? It wasn’t like I planned it out.”

“ _Just happened_ ,” Bill mocks. “Oh, god. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just fucking funny. Shit. I mean, you,” he adds, gesturing, “of all people.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the only thing crazier would’ve been if it was Jay or some shit. I mean, good lord.”

Eugene rolls his eyes. “Did you come here just to make fun of me?”

“Yeah. Someone had to. I mean, you didn’t tell me a thing. Me, your best friend.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Damn, Gene. All this time I thought we were closer than this. I’m not shitting you.”

As much as he oozes bravado something a little too fragile shows on his face, and Eugene sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, alright? You know why.”

“Why?”

“Cause I knew you’d respond like this.”

Bill scowls at him. “You’re a horrible friend.”

“You too.”

“Gianna likes me better than you.”

“I’m sure.”

“She gave me cookies today.”

“Good for her.”

Bill glares at him in silence for another moment. “I hope you know I’m going to hold this against you forever.”

“Alright,” Eugene nods.

“You’re getting dethorning duty when you come back.”

“I’m getting delivery duty when I come back. That’s what I get payed for.”

“Whatever,” Bill scoffs. “Was it worth it? How is he?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Eugene says incredulously.

“Seriously?”

“No!”

“Well, just tell me if it’s worth it, then.”

“It is.” God help him, he feels like a lovestruck fool over the way the words come out a little bit too quietly, a little too fondly.

Bill laughs softly. “Yeah?” he asks, though now his voice is serious.

“Yeah. I think it is.”

He’s silent for a long moment, not meeting Eugene’s eyes. Eugene studies him and Bill lets him, unabashed at the way he’s looking around the room. “You’ve changed since you met him,” he says finally.

Eugene’s eyes drift to the bible still propped up on the windowsill. “Changed?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Bill lets a breath out between his teeth. “I don’t know. Wish I could tell you. A little more determined, maybe.”

Eugene frowns. “Determined?”

“Don’t look at me. I’m not the one feeling it. Word of advice though, Eugene. Look around. You’ve got time. Stop panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You’re not calm, though. You’re throwing yourself at this now. You always got to throw yourself at the next thing. Do me a favor and just chill out a little, okay?”

Eugene rolls that over in his head, not because it’s wholly accurate but because it’s hitting a little closer to the truth than he would like. Nobody knows the truth; he himself doesn’t even know. It’s unnerving that of all people Bill could offer something that rings so clear anyway. “Calm down,” he echoes with a wry smile. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Ah, shut up.”

“Who knew you were so deep, huh?”

“Gene, this is the last time I give you any sort of serious advice,” Bill says. “This is the last serious conversation we’re having, period. You better savor this shit. This is as nice as I get.”

“I’ll make note of it,” Eugene replies with an eye roll.

“Give your rich boyfriend a blowjob for me.”

“Get the fuck out, Bill.”

Eugene can hear Bill cackling even after he closes the door behind him. He can’t help but smile.

He spends the morning tidying the apartment and then dips into his savings to hit the grocery store, dropping as much as he’s willing to part with on the bare essentials and nothing more. It isn’t a good idea but it’s probably cheaper than ordering out constantly. Besides, with nothing in his immediate future it’s not like he’s really saving for anything in the first place. Long term goals have become surprisingly abstract these days.

He trudges home with his load, grateful for the cool air off the sea for once. Usually the chill makes him horribly homesick for warmer weather, but in times like these he can’t bring himself to be upset about it.

He turns the corner and approaches his building. Even over the rush of traffic he can hear voices resonating from the shadow of the stoop—familiar voices.

“I didn’t need you then and I don’t need you now, alright?” Merriell is hissing.

“You need someone to help you, boy. You may be thick but even you know that.”

He rounds the corner. Merriell is sitting on the steps to the building, most likely sullying his dark slacks with the grime that lingers on the stoop. He must have stopped at North Nottingham before court, Eugene’s shirt still hanging from his shoulders but accented with a flashy kerchief tied at a jaunty angle and only serving to make the bruises directly above it even more pronounced. His hair must’ve been styled earlier but has since been knocked loose, the ends already starting to curl in chaotic disarray with the salt in the air. His eyes are hidden by a pair of sunglasses but Eugene can still sense his glare at the man leaning on the rail at the bottom of the steps—none other than Mr. Haney.

Eugene falters. “What’s going on, guys?”

Mr. Haney shoots Merriell one last furious look. “Nothing,” he grumbles. “I was just on my way out. Eugene,” he nods, then brushes past him to get to the street.

Eugene watches him go. “You know him?” he asks finally.

Merriells fingers are toying with the fabric of his knees—satin by the looks of it, and much too fine for such treatment. “No,” he says. “He was just chatty, I guess.”

It couldn’t be more obvious a lie if he’d tried. “Mr. Haney isn’t usually talkative.”

“Yeah?” Merriell replies. He takes the hand Eugene offers and allows himself to be pulled up, following Eugene into the building.

“Yeah. He’s been living here as long as I have but I only know him because he goes to the shop now and then. Otherwise he never says a word. I think he was in the service.”

Merriell hums noncommittedly. “Makes sense. He seemed the type.”

Eugene lets the silence drag as he unlocks the door. He doesn’t speak until it’s closed again, Merriell already wandering through his living space toward his bed. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Nothing. He thought he recognized me, that’s all.”

Eugene frowns. He knows it a lie; knows it based on the fragment of the conversation he’d heard; knows it from the look on Merriell’s face. He’s getting easier to read each day, or maybe Eugene is just getting better at it. “How was court?” he asks instead, holding his peace.

Merriell sighs, flopping backward on the bed. “Good. Fine. He’s just stalling at this point. Taking for-fucking-ever. He dragged it out today. We were supposed to be done at noon.”

“You come here directly?”

“Sure did.”

“What did Lawrence Richards, Esquire think of that?” he asks drily.

He grins. “His soon to be ex-husband driving off in the car he bought him to see another man? He wasn’t a fan.”

“Car?” Eugene frowns. “What car?”

“Outside.”

Eugene has to crawl onto the bed and over his body to peak out the window. The street is crowded only with industrial vehicles—and one car that stands out like a sore thumb. “The Porsche?”

“That’s the bitch.” He tugs Eugene’s wrist until Eugene loses his balance and falls bodily on top of him.

“It’s a beautiful car,” Eugene tells him seriously, then kisses the skin below the jut of his jawbone. When Merriell sighs contentedly he works his way lower, fingers setting to work untying the cloth around his neck.

“It’s a piece of shit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. His fingers make their way into Eugene’s hair, stroking restlessly against the nape of his neck light enough to send goosebumps down his spine. “I had a Cougar back home. Turbo V8. Belonged to my old man. That thing _purred._ ”

Eugene files that information away even if he doesn’t know what it means. It’s a hint at his old life, and that at least is important. “Turbo?” he asks.

“You don’t know shit about cars, do you?” Merriell snorts.

Eugene doesn’t bother replying. He trails his mouth across his collarbone and thrills at the way it seems to make Merriell lose his train of thought for a moment.

“Damn Porsche got a new engine. He didn’t even try the old one, just put this new piece of shit in it cause the dealer told him it was better. It can’t hardly hit above ninety now.”

That makes Eugene pull back finally. He watches the black of Merriell’s pupils shrink slowly and tries to imagine any situation where he’d need to be going ninety in the city’s traffic.

“What, you’ve never done a test drive before?”

“Why didn’t you just keep your old car?”

“Yeah, he’d let me drive a half-rusted tank in from the French Quarter to Nottingham and work on it as a weekend project. That would’ve gone over great.”

Eugene lays down beside him and throws a leg over one of Merriell’s own. If he’s bothered by the intimacy of the position he doesn’t say anything about it, just keeps stroking Eugene’s hair for a long moment.

“I miss that car,” he mutters finally. “Hate driving this thing.”

Eugene hums a few bars of Drive My Car and gets a cackle and a rough shove for his efforts. He laughs and cranes his head up to see Merriell’s smiling face. “Can’t be that bad,” he says.

“You’ll see. Drive me to court tomorrow.”

“Is that a request or a command?”

“I guess that depends on which you’d rather have.”

Eugene scoffs. “I’ll drive you to court if you don’t make me late for work.”

“I won’t make you late to work if you don’t let me,” he sasses back.

Despite it he rises with Eugene’s alarm the next day, stealing one of his nicer button downs and wrestling his hair into submission before following him out the door. He presses a kiss to the corner of Eugene’s mouth when they pull up outside of the courthouse and doesn’t say a word as he gets out, but he turns to look back at him as he climbs the stairs to the massive doors. He flashes him a blinding grin before disappearing, and Eugene has to swallow down the odd fluttering in his chest before he pulls back onto the street toward the flower shop.

His arrival back to work is met with low whistles and scattered applause.

“Good honeymoon?” Bill calls. He kicks Jay under the table, who’s laughing into his newspaper.

“Boys,” Eddie says, but it’s barely even a warning. He’s laughing, too.

“Eddie, it’s just a bit of fun. Where would we be if we didn’t knock him down to size every once in a while?”

“Doing our jobs,” Burgie supplies.

“Thank you, Burgie,” Eugene says.

“You’re welcome, Eugene,” he says very seriously. He ruins it a moment later when his solemn face slips as he lets out a tiny laugh. “Nice car.”

Eugene rolls his eyes at him. “Et tu?”

“Did it come with a sexy pinup riding shotgun, or—”

“You guys are the worst.”

“You’re getting enough affection from your boy toy, the way I see it.”

He groans and flops down at the table, resting his head on his arms.

Jay pats him consolingly on the head. “There, there. They’ll get used to it soon. They’re just jealous they don’t have some rich sweet thing—”

“Hey,” Bill begins in protest. “I can get a rich sweet thing any day of—"

Eugene shakes his head. “If Mer ever hears you call him sweet—”

“Mer,” Bill parrots, and everyone crows along with him. “We’re on nickname basis now? Does that mean we get to meet him?”

“You most certainly do not.”

“What’s the matter?” A new face sitting beside Jay says. “Afraid the rest of us will want a piece?”

Eugene frowns, about to snap at him, when Bill rounds the table and gets the kid in a head lock. “Shut up, Peewee,” he snaps.

“I’m just joking!” the kid yelps.

“Yeah, and now you’re not,” he says harshly.

Burgie sighs. “Bill,” he starts.

Bill releases the kid in an instant, and the kid huffs as he brushes himself off. “Psychopath,” he mutters. “Did you see that, Eddie?”

“I saw,” Eddie says. “Bill, no more of that—”

“That’s it?!”

“—And Kathy, no more harassing Eugene. His relationship is a personal matter.”

“Everyone else was doing it!” he starts, then cowers when Eddie gives him a flat look.

“If all your friends jumped off a cliff—”

“Bold of you to assume he has friends,” Bill pipes up.

Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Who is this?” Eugene gets in finally.

“This is Kathy,” Bill says.

The kid frowns. “It’s Peck.”

“Kathy’s here to pay for school,” Bill continues. “He’s gonna be Burgie’s replacement once he’s all trained up.”

Eugene frowns. “Replacement? Burgie’s still here.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. Eugene turns to Burgie, who just shrugs. “Summer’s almost over, Sledge,” he says softly. “Gotta go home and help my old man look after my brother. I can’t stay here forever. It’s just a college job.”

College job. Just a college job.

What’s he doing here?

“Gonna go back to Jewett,” he continues. “There’ll be work for me down here.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go,” Eddie says, just as softly. Burgie gives him a sad nod.

“You’re lucky to be getting out of this shithole, anyway,” Peck says. “Graduation. Can’t wait.”

“Aw, shut up,” Bill gripes, and just like that the tension is broken.

Eugene gathers the orders from the back room to load into the truck, sending Eddie a nod before departing. It’s a good day for a drive and somehow refreshing to return to the monotony of work: the sun beating through the window while he waits in traffic, the rhythm of passing over bouquets and clipboards, the pattern he weaves through the streets. He saves Gianna’s delivery for last; when she sees him she gives him a subdued smile.

“Missing Bill already?” he jokes.

“I heard you were suspended.”

“Mmh.”

“Can I guess why?”

“Something tells me you already have.”

“Am I right?”

“Probably.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t let your lovers drag you down,” she says slowly, each word emphasized by the beats of silence in between. “They will raise you up but they can also climb above you and push you lower.”

“He’s not. Trust me.”

She shakes her head, then grins and prods his cheek when he does the same. “You look happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m always careful!”

“ _Passerotto,_ go back to work.”

He grins and heads back down the steps.

 

Merriell’s waiting for him outside the courthouse when he gets there, head bent low as he talks to a woman Eugene can only guess must be his lawyer. When Merriell catches sight of the car his head snaps up and he says something quickly to her before crossing the street and opening the door. Together, they head home.

If Eugene wasn’t already equal parts giddy and terrified by the domesticity of that particular part of his new daily rhythm, the feeling most certainly struck him upon their arrival to his apartment.

“I’ve got groceries for once,” he supplies.

“Gonna make me dinner?”

“I don’t cook much,” he admits.

Merriell grins. “Can you chop?”

“I can chop.” He rolls his eyes as Merriell offers him a tomato, setting to work dicing it on a cutting board at one corner of the counter.

He can feel Merriell’s eyes on him as he sets to work at his side. “Had a cook in that mansion of yours?”

“It wasn’t a mansion.”

Merriell raises his eyebrows in a way that clearly indicates Eugene just confirmed his joke as a reality.

Eugene rolls his eyes. “It was just a house, Mer.”

“Just a house?”

“Okay, and we had a cook. That’s it.”

Merriell laughs. “So they didn’t teach you how to cook and they didn’t teach you how to clean. What do they even bother teaching you rich boys?”

“Oh, and I’m sure you learned so much as a kid.”

“All sorts of things,” comes the drawling reply. “You gotta get street smart young if you ever want to grow old.”

Eugene swallows, looking at him from the corner of his eye. Merriell doesn’t turn. “I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly. So much of Merriell’s past is nothing but a series of question marks but he knows enough to know not to joke about any of it. “I shouldn’t kid.”

“Oh, don’t fuckin’ apologize. I was a menace. All us kids were. You’d be sorry just knowing us.”

That thought sits with him oddly. He tries to picture Merriell when he was young, without the glamor of his appearance or the hardness in his eyes; tries to imagine him as a kid terrorizing the streets of New Orleans. He wonders what it would’ve been like if that boy had met Eugene’s younger self, a gangly pale thing with a heart murmur and a quiet bookishness that earned him fawning from adults and skepticism from his peers. He wonders if they would’ve gotten along.

Merriell hip checks him. “I’ll need that,” he says, pointedly looking at Eugene’s cutting board.

Eugene nods quickly, going back to work.

He can feel Merriell’s eyes on him, assessing. Eugene hopes distantly that he’ll let it go, that he won’t make Eugene ask the question that must be blatantly hovering on his tongue. He also knows there’s no chance. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d met before?”

“Before?” Merriell says, voice falsely light. “What, when we were kids?”

“After. Before all this.”

“Before all what?”

“You know,” Eugene says vaguely, not meeting his eyes. “What if we’d met back home somewhere? Do you ever think about it?”

Merriell hasn’t looked away. Eugene knows it even if he can’t see it.

“If we’d met before, when everything was a blank slate, do you think things would be different?”

There’s a beat of stillness before he hears Merriell move again, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Jesus, Eugene,” he mutters. “What kind of question is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eugene murmurs.

“’Blank slate.’ Ain’t nobody ever gotten a blank slate. What, you think all your problems started at once? Things ain’t so neat, and if they are then lucky you. They sure ain’t for me.”

Eugene frowns, quelling down the rush of anger and defensiveness that hits him. He knows that won’t get him anywhere. He lets the silence linger.

“Dumb as hell to think anything would change,” Merriell says finally, though his voice is soft now. “You think this wouldn’t have happened if we were a few years younger? Fuck that.”

“You getting soft on me?”

“Keep dreaming.”

At least that cuts the tension. He allows the two of them to slide back into the rhythm they’ve built, moving around each other with light touches and joking darkly again. Maybe Merriell’s smiles are more subdued than usual; it’s impossible to tell. Maybe he’s trying hard to act like something in the last few minutes hasn’t changed the way he’s been acting all night; it’s impossible to tell.

 

He isn’t quite sure which of them allowed it to become a routine, but that’s the first day it happens: he’d gone to sleep beside Merriell the night before and goes to sleep beside him that night too, watches Merriell strip out of thousand-dollar clothes and leave them strewn across the floor, helps him wash the hair gel out until his curls poke through again and tries not to stare at the imprint of his own teeth on his neck. He lays down beside him and breathes in the smell of his skin and falls asleep.

When he wakes up Merriell is still there. Eugene wants desperately in that first second of wakefulness, mind still hovering above unconsciousness, what his first thought of the day is. He wants to ask what he dreamt of. He wants to know if he dreams, but he also knows he won’t get a straight answer and guessing will be beyond pointless. He doesn’t know how to read him that way quite yet, maybe. It’s impossible to tell.

It sets the tone for the following weeks: waking up beside him, leaving the apartment together, making his deliveries and then heading back home. Sometimes they end up at Nottingham, other times in Eugene’s shoebox. There’s no real pattern to it but the rhythm of it sets into his bones all the same. It feels fast and maybe it is, but it’s also easy. It’s too easy to fall into each other’s orbit. He can’t really resist it, so he doesn’t.

With Merriell’s gradual move into Eugene’s space comes the increasingly aching warmth of sleeping beside him. He'd gotten used to waking up to see Merriell curled up as close to the edge of the bed as possible, or even more frequently to waking up alone entirely. Sleep wasn't a part of their relationship. Even in times when it was their bodies didn't quite know each other the same way in dreams than they did upon waking, always edging away from each other rather than being drawn irrepressibly nearer.

It only takes four consecutive nights of Merriell falling asleep draped over him for that to wear away.

The first time Eugene blinks awake with a face full of curls it's more because of the sun in his face than anything. He can't shift and close the blinds though, not with Merriell resting on him. The sheets are tangled around his waist, sun hitting the skin of his back until its warm to the touch. Eugene has half a mind to wake him just to make him put sunscreen on, but something catches his eye before he can.

It's the lovely softness of Merriell’s face, but it's more. It's the lines between his eyebrows fading, the shadows disappearing from underneath his eyelashes. He looks rested. It can't have been that sudden a shift; no, Eugene is only noticing it now, the day's blurring together into a smooth line along with the gradual shift in Merriell’s mood. Eugene reaches out to cup his cheek, tracing a thumb feather-light over the skin that used to be so bruised. His cheekbone is softer beneath his palm, cheeks no longer quite so hollowed and skin no longer as pale. His ribs don’t cut into Eugene’s own where they rest together. He looks healthy. Happy.

“Reason you watching like a creep?” Merriell mumbles, sniffling.

“No,” Eugene replies lamely. Steeling himself, he amends, “You look nice.”

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” comes the flat reply, but then a single blue eye is peering at him. “‘Sides, nice? _Really?_ ”

“You look positively ravishing,” Eugene deadpans. “Absolutely divine.”

“Ah, stop,” he says, swatting at Eugene lazily. “Get out of here. Go make me breakfast or something.”

“Completely breathtaking,” Eugene continues, gently wrestling him in the warm mess of blankets as Merriell cackles. “Quite truly an Adonis of epic proportions. Venus weeps.”

“You're a fuckin’ idiot,” Merriell gets out between giggles.

“A god!” he exclaims dramatically, finally getting him pinned. “Nothing short!”

“Are you done?” Merriell laughs.

“Almost,” he says, then leans down to kiss him, slow and sweet as the sunlight drifting through the window. When he pulls away Merriell is smiling a little dopily, and he has to duck down and do it again.

Breakfast doesn't get made for a long while.

Merriell’s shirts begin accumulating in Eugene’s apartment and his albums gradually start following them. It isn’t particularly noteworthy until the broken watch that once lived on Merriell’s dresser finds a new home on Eugene’s windowsill. He starts the first time he sees it, midway through leaning over to dig an album out of the milk crate under his bed. He rights himself and picks it up gingerly, tilting it until it catches the light from the window. It’s a battered thing, the casing a scratched bronze and the face simple and white. The band is leather and curled from use, the inside cracking with age. The hands are permanently stuck at 11:35.

He turns it over in his hand. _Je suis désolé,_ the back reads. There’s no signature or date, just that short string of words Eugene is nowhere close to understanding. He turns it over again. The hands haven’t moved.

He puts it back on the windowsill carefully and goes back to his hunt for an album. When he finally breaks the silence in the apartment it’s with the opening bars of M.P.G., scratchy over his stereo. The sun bounces off the watch face and casts a bright circle of sunshine on the wall above the record player, and he smiles when he notices.

The days are getting steadily hotter as fall approaches. Eugene still isn’t quite used to how summer heat doesn’t fully set in until fall on the pacific and he supposes Merriell feels the same way. Some days he knocks on the door and waits long minutes before opening it himself, following the sparkling marble floors to the back of the house only to find Merriell lazing about in the pool. His skin never burns under the sun, and he’s lucky for it. The first time Eugene joins him outside he’s sporting a burned red nose for the rest of the week.

He wises up the next time and wears sunscreen. They spend the afternoon making out lazily in the shallows.

The house on Nottingham is slowly growing on him, or at least isn’t as immediately chilling as it was in the beginning of all of this. Maybe it’s because it really does feel more like Merriell’s domain now that they aren’t sneaking around anymore. For all that he loves Eugene’s apartment Merriell still spends a decent portion of his time here, Eugene at his side more often than not. It might not be the house that’s growing on him at all so much as it is the way the two of them fit together in the space. Still, that doesn’t mean there aren’t bad days.

Some days he knocks and nobody comes.

Some days he tries the door handle to find it open and makes his way warily toward the kitchen, worn soles of his shoes tapping softly against the marble floor. Some days he follows the familiar path up the stairs and toward the room in the back to find Merriell staring worriedly at the sea and lost deep in thought as he rubs the fingers of one hand restlessly together, the metal of all his rings clinking quietly in the silence.

It isn’t often, but it happens enough that in the span of a month Eugene gets used to it. He gets accustomed to the motions of trying to lull him out of his shell even if his attempts are met with introspective quiet or on the worst days an almost desperate physicality—and desperate for what exactly, Eugene still isn’t sure. Distraction, maybe.

Could be that distraction is all any of this is for him.

Today is one of the quiet days, evidently.

“I’ll be fine,” Merriell says, and his eyes are as lifeless as the blackened, oil-slick water of the gulf.

“Tell me about it.” He tries to kiss him sweetly, but Merriell turns his head away so that Eugene’s lips make contact instead with the corner of his mouth.

“Eugene.”

“Tell me. Is it because of us?”

Merriell shakes his head even as he curls closer into Eugene’s space, the warmth of their chests bumping together.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” comes the response. “Fuck. I’m not.”

“Still, I didn’t want to make this harder for you. I don’t want you to resent me for this, or—”

“Oh, shut up. He’s only trying to drag you into this. It’s making it a bit harder to settle now that he can call me a cheater. Don’t make the end result any different.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

Merriell falls silent again, and Eugene sighs. He follows the direction of Merriell’s earlier gaze, looks out at the sparkling sea stretching out to the horizon outside. He wonders if Merriell is thinking of the Gulf, too. The Pacific is grey and vast where the Gulf’s waters run warm and silty in the summer, churning up the soft sand of its floor in swirls and clouds. The sea has never been so gentle.

“You wanna get out of here?”

He manages to get the Porsche packed up in minutes: a blanket that’s probably made out of cashmere and much too expensive for his purposes, some water, what few snacks he can find laying around the mansion. It takes only as long as Merriell spends collecting himself before coming downstairs, following him to the garage and sliding into the passenger seat and barely hiding his disgruntlement behind his aviators.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“You’ll see,” Eugene replies. He has to stifle a smile.

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“You’ll like it.”

Merriell grumbles something to himself in French and turns the radio on as they pull out of the driveway.

When they finally get there the sun is shining bright through the afternoon chill, the air heavy with salt and the fog just starting to roll in. Merriell shoots him a suspicious glance.

“I find the fact that you don’t trust me with things like this by now deeply insulting,” Eugene says teasingly.

Merriell rolls his eyes. “I trust you.”

“Then don’t be so grumpy.”

“I’m not.”

Eugene leans over and kisses the downturn of Merriell’s mouth before he can pull away.

It makes Merriell sigh. “I’m not,” he says, more convincingly this time.

That makes Eugene smile. He reaches into the backseat to grab the bag stashed there. “Come on,” he says. “It isn’t far.”

They follow the trail along the edge of the bluffs, the bay stretching out far below. The city is barely visible across the water, creeping out of a low-hanging fog bank. The fog doesn’t touch them here, though. Their view is perfectly clear, and Eugene stops for a moment to look while Merriell stares out impassively at his side.

Something in Merriell’s face softens when he turns the other way. Eugene pauses, confused until the follows his gaze. “Oh,” he says at last. “You like it?”

Merriell frowns quickly. “I’m not the flower nerd outta the two of us.”

“But you always have so many flowers in your house.”

Merriell gives him his best bitchface.

“You must love them. I used to bring you flowers all the time! Did you not enjoy them?”

His frown breaks finally. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Come on,” Eugene says, then grins and tugs him toward the field. “Let’s go look.”

Despite his cold front Merriell does little to hide his satisfaction that Eugene had suggested it first. He follows after him quickly, having no trouble navigating the bumps and divots in the dry earth in his hundred-dollar boots. “Coulda warned me we were gonna be hiking,” he complains, though he looks more at home knee-high in grass than he does anywhere else.

Eugene scoffs. “Gotta come prepared,” he says, then tugs out the blanket he’d pilfered from the house and spreads it clumsily. “Here. Help me out.”

When they finally have it situated as best they can manage Eugene ends up sprawled, head pillowed on his jacket as he watches the clouds go by. Merriell is sitting near his shoulder, cupping a large blossom of Queen Anne’s Lace in his palms and watching it spring outward when he lets go. He’s lost his sunglasses somewhere along the way and taken his jacket off, and his skin looks warm and soft in the light. When he catches Eugene’s eye he shakes his head wryly and looks away.

“You’re lovely,” Eugene murmurs half to himself, and gets a halfhearted glare in response. He yelps when Merriell throws a handful of grass onto his chest. “Hey!”

Merriell grins as Eugene picks up the clump of grass and throws it back his way. It ends up caught in his hair and falling onto his shoulders, and Merriell leans over his body and shakes his head like a dog so it ends up flying all over Eugene again anyway.

“Are you done?” Eugene asks dryly, unable to tamp down a laugh.

Merriell just grins, falling backward until he’s laying at Eugene’s side. He’s close enough that his arm overlaps Eugene’s own and Eugene can’t quite tell if he did it on purpose. Knowing him, maybe; knowing him, maybe not. He should make a habit of counting his odds on daisy petals. It would be as likely to clarify Merriell’s thoughts in any situation as anything else would.

He casts the thought out of his mind and grounds himself in his surroundings: the salt in the air, the feeling of glades of grass pushing up against the blanket, the wind rustling the flowers. He can hear the ocean just like he can hear Merriell breathe. He can feel the sun’s warmth just as he can feel Merriell’s warmth beside him. He stares into the blue of the sky and lets himself get lost in it.

After a beat Merriell speaks softly. “Why here?” he asks.

Eugene does his best to shrug. “Why not?”

“Of all places in the city.”

He turns that over in his head. “I just like it, I guess,” he says finally. “We came here a lot for class. It always reminded me I wasn’t trapped in the city.”

“You aren’t trapped.”

“No, I’m not,” Eugene replies, then wonders belatedly if it was a question or a reassurance.

Merriell puts his shoes on and wanders further into the field, already toting a handful of flowers he’d found nearby with him. Eugene watches him go, the sunlight playing off his skin and hair and the grass brushing his legs. Something about it is painfully romantic, bohemian in a way that Eugene knows he’ll never forget. A few lines about going to California with an aching heart come to mind, and he hums along until Merriell disappears from view and he’s left with nothing but the sky and the sound of the waves.

He drifts for a minute, something having settled in him that had kept him from sleep the night before. Maybe it’s the peace of it; he doesn’t know. He wakes again when he feels the blanket shift next to him and when he opens his eyes Merriell has settled down finally. He sprawls at Eugene’s side, laying a bouquet of wildflowers on his chest. “For you,” he murmurs.

“Me?”

“Mhmm.”

“Thank you.” He looks down at them. They’re mostly poppies, the petals irregular and the leaves bright green and gangly. They’re beautiful but nothing like the flowers that could be found at the shop, wild and imperfect and lovely. When he looks up again Merriell is staring solemnly back, and it hits him all at once.

Merriell loves him. He loves him and he wants him to know about it.

“Mer,” he starts.

Merriell ducks in to kiss him. It’s slow and unusually sweet, barely more than just a simple press of lips. When Eugene moves to pull back he follows, movements unusually hesitant in a way that has Eugene trailing fingers along his cheek into his hair just to feel him relax slightly.

This time when he pulls back Merriell lets him. He keeps his eyes resolutely closed even as he leans into Eugene’s touch. “Look at me,” he whispers.

Blue eyes flicker open, trained on Eugene’s lips.

“I love you, Merriell.”

He barely even breathes it out; he’s too afraid. It doesn’t matter. They’re pressed close enough together that he can feel the way Merriell’s breath catches.

He traces his cheeks with his thumbs. “I love you,” he whispers again.

Merriell surges forward and presses their lips together almost desperately. Eugene barely catches him, accepting it carefully and taking control to slow it down. Merriell moans softly into his mouth as he does, and he looks dazed when they pull apart again. “You don’t,” he says.

“Like hell I don’t.”

“How do you know?”

It could be that he takes Eugene’s breath away. It could be that he occupies all of his thoughts, that when they’re together the rest of the world fades out of focus. It could be the nervous flutter in his chest whenever Merriell is nearby, the tremor in his fingertips and the giddiness rising in his throat like laughter.

It’s not, though—it’s something bone-deep, something he can’t shake. It’s all those things boiled down and reduced into something pure, something carefully distilled and injected straight into his blood stream, something silent and pulsing and breathing and growing.

“How does anyone know?” he asks.

Merriell looks at his mouth again. “They just know.”

Eugene nods.

“Tell me,” Merriell says quietly.

“Tell you about it?” he asks. Merriell hums and kisses his jaw sweetly. “You already know what you do to me.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Eugene smiles into the kiss Merriell offers him. He tugs him closer by his hair and doesn’t let up until Merriell’s hips rock inadvertently against his own. “You remind me I’m not trapped,” he breathes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, but even if I were it’d be okay. If it was with you I’d be okay.”

That has Merriell’s head snapping up, eyes heavy.

“I’d stay for you.”

“Eugene.”

“I would. For you I would.”

He sighs, and it sounds like the waves crashing below. When he kisses him again his lips taste like salt.

“I’d do anything for you.”

“Gene.”

“I love you, Mer.”

 He’s breathing deep and stuttering, head ducked into Eugene’s shoulder, and he can see low marine clouds scuttling across the blue sky.

He lets it all flood out of him like a riptide. “I don’t give a shit where we’re going or whether it’s wrong. I don’t care what’s happening. That’s what I want. I want you. I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

Merriell’s clambering back up to press their lips together, rutting against him desperate and needy and quick like he doesn’t know how to settle into it. “Gene,” he breathes against his mouth. “Gene, Gene.”

Eugene gets a hand in his hair enough to drag him back up and watch his eyes flutter. He’s beautiful like this—he’s always beautiful but against the bright blue of the sky he looks like something Eugene has never seen before. He’s reminded again of the blank slate of their lives, the way things might’ve been if they’d met earlier.

It’s hard to even remember the reality of things here. The sound of the wind pulls him back. This is the two of them at their most flawed, their most bare. Merriell pushes down against him and he feels it flare up in his spine. This is them, between every beat of the waves and the sun. This is them.

When Merriell leans down again he holds him in place and ruts up against him just to feel him gasp against his mouth. Merriell falls to his elbows, their faces a scant inch apart, and Eugene frames his hips to steady him. It makes Merriell gasp raggedly, and when he pulls away next his eyes hold a clarity even through the haze of pleasure. It scrapes him raw but he hardly minds. He has nothing to hide here. He can’t hide anything here.

Merriell presses their foreheads together and shudders bone-deep, eyes fluttering closed as he moans against Eugene’s mouth, and the pleasure catches up with him all at once. He distantly feels Merriell collapse against him and press his nose into Eugene’s neck as he catches his breath. Eugene cards his hand through his hair and lets the darkness swallow him up for a minute, lets the smell of Merriell’s skin combine with the coolness of the wind and the warmth of him compete with that of the sun.

Neither of them shift for a long moment. It’s Merriell who finally does, pressing his face even closer so that his words are almost lost between their skin. “Did you mean it?” he murmurs.

It takes Eugene’s brain a moment to catch up, and then he can feel his face heat at the boldness of it. It felt fine a moment ago to air those words; here and now it’s harder, now that he’s laid everything out and has yet to say the same. He quells the feeling. He has no use being silent now where he felt like screaming it out before. “Of course I did,” he says quietly. “Of course I meant it.”

Merriell breathes out long and slow. “All of it?”

“All of it.”

He’s silent for another beat. “You’d stay?”

Eugene nods. He knows Merriell can feel the motion even if he can’t see it.

It makes Merriell let out another smooth breath. “I love you, Eugene,” he whispers.

Eugene can do nothing but pull him closer and turn his face toward the soft mop of his curls.

“I love you. _Je t’aime._ I love you.” For a beat Eugene thinks he’s done, but then he takes a breath. “If we’d met before, wouldn’t be a thing that’d change.”

Eugene watches the clouds roll across the sky and rolls that in his head, molasses-slow. He thinks of the circumstances of their meeting, thinks of the complexity of their lives. Here it’s hard to remember; they aren’t far from the city but it all fades rapidly away between the earth and the sky and the two of them. He thinks about his life back home, thinks about his imagined picture of Merriell in his youth. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers.

They don’t move for a long moment—how many minutes Eugene isn’t quite sure, but it isn’t until the sun is low and rivaling the poppies in color that they shift. Merriell makes a face as they do, stickiness in their pants finally catching up with him.

Eugene laughs. “Shower?”

“Shower.”

“Yours or mine?”

Merriell turns and grins at him. “Mine. Right? Might as well make the most of it. Way things are looking I don’t think I’ll be there much longer.”

The car ride back is spent trying not to get caught in the way the gold of the sunset turns Merriell’s eyes green or the way he’s doing nothing to hide the way he’s watching Eugene. They make it all the way to the house before the giddiness gets to them and then they’re all but giggling to themselves as they cross the threshold. Eugene pulls him in for an obnoxious kiss and gets a laugh and a swat on the chest for his efforts.

“Really? After you come back from romping in the hay? You got me dirty.”

Eugene raises his eyebrows at that. “Dirty? Really?”

“Oh, shut up,” Merriell laughs, pushing him away. “Go run a shower. Head in the gutter. Jesus.”

Eugene snickers and starts up the stairs to the bathroom, setting to work adjusting the twenty taps on Richards’ lavish bathtub until the shower is running hot and steaming up the glass of the mirrors. The whole process takes him longer than he’d like to admit, and when Merriell still isn’t back by the time he’s done he frowns and starts back down the steps.

“Mer?” he calls.

He finds him in the kitchen, just hanging the phone back in the cradle.

“What was that about?”

Merriell doesn’t even respond, just turns and kisses him hard. Eugene barely has time to get his thoughts in order before he’s pulling away again.

“Ordering food.”

“No groceries?”

“Never are in this house. Come on, let’s clean up.”

Their shower is productive until it turns into a war with the soap suds, which then turns into the two of them chasing each other through the halls wearing guest robes. By the time they settle down the sun is already set, and they eat pizza off fine china by the pool. It feels domestic and completely reckless at the same time, and the entire evening Eugene feels like he’s trying to catch his breath, giddy with it.

This is a side of Merriell he rarely sees. This is a side with which he isn’t readily familiar: the bare chaos of him, the unbridled passion and unpredictability of his joy. He soaks it up as quickly as he can, basks in it as he pleases.

“I love you,” Merriel murmurs into his mouth.

They fuck slow like couples do, spend the time taking each other in, drag it out and build it up gradually until they’re both speechless with it until only one thought can drift aimlessly through his brain like a prayer. _You can have this._ He holds him close and tugs at his hair, keeps them inches apart. _You can have this._ He coaxes Merriell apart carefully, diligently. _This can be yours always._

It settles deep into his bones as they drift off to sleep between the hundred-dollar sheets, lodges itself between his ribs and stays there.

“I love you,” Merriell whispers into the darkness.

_You can have this._

He holds him closer and listens as his breathing evens out. Finally the rhythm of it lulls him to sleep.

 

They’re awoken by a knock at the door, the sound echoing through the house in a horribly hollow note. Eugene always hated the noise, but it’s even worse from the inside. He grumbles and rolls over, shoving his face into the back of Merriell’s head. Unfortunately for him Merriell is already trying to move away, which makes matters even more difficult.

“Let go, Gene,” Merriell chides. “I gotta get that.”

“You don’t,” Eugene grumbles, wrapping tighter around him. Merriell laughs and swats at him, and Eugene grins against his neck. He’s all sleep-warm golden skin, the early light of morning catching his stray curls. “Don’t need to get that. ‘S probably not important.”

“Oh, get off,” Merriell laughs, finally escaping his arms and scooping his robe off the floor, tying the cords quickly. Eugene’s brain is functioning at just a high enough level to mourn the loss of the view of his bare skin. “You’re a clingy thing when you’re tired, you know that? Hang tight. I’ll only be a minute.”

Eugene huffs and curls around the pillow Merriell left behind. It’s still warm and smells like him—nowhere near as good as holding the real thing, but it’ll do. He can see the coast from here, the horizon stretching far and grey, still chasing away the blanket of night. He hears the door open downstairs and then close a moment later and allows his eyes to drift shut again. The warmth of the bed is getting to him, the mattress soft and perfect and the sheets smooth and sweet-smelling. He could drift off without a second thought, but he’d rather wait until Merriell is back so they can curl up together properly.

He almost dozes off again just waiting. It takes a long while for Merriell to come back upstairs, long enough that Eugene loses track of time as his thoughts fade back into sleep. He’s almost out when he hears feet padding down the hallway, feels the bed dip beside him and lips press against his temple. When he opens his eyes Merriell is sitting near his hip, the silk of his robe pooling in his lap and a thick envelope open in his hand.

“Are you awake? Thought you might want to be for this. Courier just dropped it off. Want to see?”

Eugene frowns and sits up, chest to Merriell’s back so he can prop his chin on his shoulder. “See what?”

“Divorce papers came through.” And there they are, sure as life. There’s a line for Merriell to sign on and that’s the end to it all. Odd to think all the fuss of the court hearings and legal battles ends with something so simple.

If the thought occurs to Merriell he doesn’t let on, just leans briefly out of Eugene’s hold to grab a pen from the nightstand. Eugene pulls him close again when he comes back. “All that for just a piece of paper,” he mumbles against Merriell’s shoulder. There’s a bruise poking out from the edge of the fabric, and Eugene hooks his fingers under the silk and trails them down Merriell’s arms until his shoulders are exposed. It’s a mark from the night before, the largest in a wandering trail from Merriell’s jaw to his collarbone, and Eugene gives it a lingering open-mouthed kiss.

Merriell is scanning the paper, but Eugene still sees him smile. “It’s simple alright, but that doesn’t mean it ain’t important.”

“Yeah? Maybe you should sign with a bit more ceremony.” He pauses to kiss the next mark down the line, pushing the fabric lower until it’s catcing at Merriell’s elbows. “We could have a toast or something.”

“No, this is just perfect,” Merriell mutters with a smile. Eugene continues tracing his path from the night before with his lips, watching over Merriell’s shoulder as he signs carefully on the line. He crosses the t in his last name with one last deliberate pen stroke before setting the paper down on the nightstand. “There. Just like that.”

Eugene watches him pull his robe off the rest of the way, dropping it over the edge of the mattress before sliding back under the covers to burrow into Eugene’s warmth. “You’re a free man,” Eugene says quietly. “How does it feel?”

Merriell cranes his neck to kiss him, slow and familiar. “It feels good,” he says, wrapping his body around Eugene’s own.

Eugene basks in the familiarity of him for one long moment before letting his eyes drift shut again. Within minutes he’s asleep once more, hypnotized by Merriell’s shallow breathing and the contentment on his face even in sleep.

 

He wakes up alone. The sheets beside him are cool to the touch. When he goes downstairs Merriell is nowhere in sight; he calls out to him and gets no answer.

At a loss, he goes to work.

“All ready to go on the counter,” Eddie tells him when he arrives, gesturing at the cluster of bouquets there. “It’s a small lot. Shouldn’t take long. You can take the rest of the day off if you want to.”

It’s a good idea. The weather is beautiful today. Maybe they can take the afternoon off and go back to the meadow, or he can help Merriell pack up his things and move somewhere far away from that house. Maybe he’ll even want to move into Eugene’s shoebox. The idea is as exciting as it is terrifying, like peeking off the edge of a steep ravine. They’ll need to talk it over. “That sounds good. Thanks,” he tells Eddie, scooping up the bouquets to take to the van.

Eddie is right. All he has for the day are a few deliveries for the retirement home, and a handful for some offices around town. The lack of a tasteless, massive display in the cluster sits oddly with him. He’d gotten so used to toting the things to North Nottingham that now not doing it is throwing him off.

It’s for the better, anyway. Good riddance.

He rushes through his deliveries, knocking them all out in an hour before following the familiar roads to  the Richards residence. If the divorce has gone through then Merriell will need help moving out. It’s the least he can do as long as he has an empty truck with him.

When he arrives the driveway is already crowded with trucks, though.

Movers are running to and fro, boxes in hand as they load them into vehicles. It’s a scene of chaos as much as it is one of organization. Eugene spots the couch Merriell had ripped those tiny holes into all those weeks ago as it goes by on the backs of two men. God, it feels like a lifetime ago now.

In the center of the chaos is Lawrence Richards, Esquire himself. When he spots Eugene his face turns rapidly purple.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he shouts, marching up to Eugene’s open window. Eugene fights the urge to roll it up a fraction. “You haven’t caused enough trouble as it is?”

He isn’t sure what to say to that. Not an apology, because he isn’t sorry. Not an excuse, because he doesn’t have one. “Is Merriell here?” he asks instead.

“Does it fucking look like it?”

“All his stuff is still here. I figured that meant he’d be here, too.”

“It isn’t his stuff.” Richards rolls his eyes at Eugene’s look of confusion. “He gave it all up.”

Eugene can feel his frown deepen. “What?”

“What, he didn’t tell you that?” Richards snorts. “I can’t fucking believe it. He leaves me for _you_ of all people and he doesn’t even have the guts to tell you what’s going on in his fucking joke of a life.”

“He told me about the case,” Eugene says flatly. Merriell trusts him. He knows this.

“Yeah. Sure. Well if he told you then I’m sure you already know that last night he decided he didn’t want a single piece of the estate. Not one thing.”

“What?”

“He called his lawyer and gave it all up on the spot. The house, his car, everything he’d ever bought with my money. He even gave back his fucking ring. He rushed the proceedings. Stopped arguing and the conversation was over within an hour. Flighty bitch,” he mutters as an afterthought, and Eugene feels himself bristle. “You know what, boy? I wanted to fucking kill you with my bare hands. I still do. I think he’ll get you himself, though. That’s his thing: he can’t stop running.” He laughs softly. “You think you’ve got him pinned down? You don’t. Nobody does. He’ll cut his own leg off to get out of a trap. If you’ve got him pinned down he’ll cut you off, too.”

“You don’t know him,” Eugene snaps. “How long were you married for? You didn’t learn a single damn thing about him through all of it.”

“Didn’t I? I learned that. He left behind everything he owned. He’s probably leaving you, too. He’s probably doing it as we speak.”

“You don’t know where he is?”

“He’s probably halfway back to where he was, broke and feral and living off scraps in some cesspool somewhere. He’ll never have it better than he did with me, you understand? You can’t give him what he wants.”

That’s it; Eugene grinds his teeth and steps on the gas. Movers jump out of the way as the car jolts forward and speeds back down the driveway. He can see Richards in the rear view mirror for only a second before he’s whipping around the corner and back to the main road.

It isn’t true. It can’t be.

Merriell had hated half his possessions. Of course he’d give them to Richards if it meant finalizing the divorce faster. He’d never wanted the car or the house or the furniture in the first place.

He’d never wanted the flowers, either. Did he really even want Eugene?

He’d always been a runner. Eugene had known that from the get-go and accepted it without complaint. He’d helped Merriell run from his house, helped him run from any situation that inconvenienced him, helped him run from his husband and now the reality is staring him in the face that Merriell could well have run from Eugene. He could’ve done it easily, without remorse.

Eugene shakes his head. That’s Richards’ voice in his head, now. Merriell wants him; Merriell loves him, and he’d be an idiot to doubt it. They’re in love, and this is just a blip in their time together.

He parks the van back in front of the shop before starting the walk home at a brisk pace. For all his time in this city Merriell never seemed to have laid down roots in it. There are a limited number of places he could be, and Eugene has already checked one off the list.

But when he unlocks the door to his apartment it’s empty, the phonograph silent and still on the window seat and the bed the same as he’d left it, one of Merriell’s sweatshirts still laying across the footboard. Eugene wanders over and traces a hand over it; it’s warm to the touch, but only from the sun filtering in through the window. Neither of them have been here since the day before.

He grabs a book off the shelf and sprawls out in bed. Merriell is bound to return before nightfall. There’s nowhere else for him to go.

He only manages to read for an hour or so. By the time he comes back to himself he realizes he’s just been staring at the fading sun over the roofline outside the window, ignoring the words in front of him. Merriell isn’t back.

He shuffles through the kitchen, but his stomach is too twisted with worry for him to eat. He digs through a drawer until he unearths his pipe instead, an old habit he’d all but given up these past few months. He packs it with stale tobacco and sits in the window ledge, lighting it as the sky fades to darkness. Merriell isn’t back.

He lifts the arm of the phonograph, letting it down against the outer edge of the record without even checking what it is. Music washes through the room a second later, filling in the empty spaces left by the smoke drifting out the window as his pipe burns out. His eyes catch on the watch still resting on windowsill, hands permanently frozen in time. He taps his pipe against the sill a few times to empty it and then leaves it there, curling up in bed without even bothering to undress. He sprawls across the mattress sideways and uses the sweatshirt as a pillow, letting the familiar smell of jasmine and rain clog his senses. Merriell isn’t back yet.

It’s a long time before he’s able to drift off. He can’t stop anticipating the unlocking of the door and the sound of the hinges as it swings open. The noise never comes. He needs to stop waiting. He already knows. Merriell isn’t back yet because he isn’t coming back at all.

He’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, the good news is this might even be finished before the 1-year anniversary of the first chapter being put up! I pulled the 2018 hbo war blog classic and hopped out of here to join the Queen fandom for a hot sec (ao3 is sweetestsight and tumblr is justqueenthoughts (shhh) if anyone’s into that), but we all have to return to our roots eventually, don’t we? 
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger. I want to say I won’t leave you hanging long, but given my track record with this thing we’ll see. I do have a good section of the last chapter written already, so that should at least help. 
> 
> Song references in this are Drive My Car by The Beatles, there’s a reference to Can’t Stop Thinking About My Baby by Marvin Gaye because I can’t stop referencing MPG in this fic apparently, and the bit in the meadow references Going To California by Led Zeppelin. Also No Plan off Hozier’s new album completely reignited my love for this ship, so if you want any good food? There’s some good food for ya. 
> 
> Also sorry if this is a bit of a mess. I have ~mononucleosis 
> 
> Okay let me know what you think byeeee

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @thankyouperconte


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